


How to Tame a Heart

by HQ_Wingster



Series: A Teacup's Shatter [1]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst and Romance, Assassins & Hitmen, Blood and Violence, Chance Meetings, Character Development, Developing Relationship, Dreams vs. Reality, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Feelings Realization, First Love, Foreshadowing, Graphic Description, Introspection, M/M, Mafia Victor Nikiforov, Memories, Mind Games, Multi, Past Relationship(s), Psychological Drama, Russian Mafia, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-31
Updated: 2018-03-21
Packaged: 2019-03-11 18:00:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 46,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13529628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HQ_Wingster/pseuds/HQ_Wingster
Summary: It was the smoke that trailed from Viktor’s lips when he stepped out from a black Lexus later that night. His back against the driver’s door, a cigarette from Mama between his fingers to ease his mind. When the leftover ash fell and struck against the concrete, Viktor entered the airport. His bangs swept over his eyes. His version of hiding behind a pair of shades. Viktor may’ve stuck out like a sore thumb with his suit and tie, but there were other bodyguards roaming the airport tonight.Like a playground for an assassin, Viktor faded into the background at the turn of an eye. A switchblade up his arm, ready to strike. The barrel of a gun lurked behind his eyes, an angry demise for a world with lies.Despite this profile, despite the edge in his name, Viktor Nikiforov had a photo album tucked away in his nightstand. For four years, he knew the sweet ache of a first love. For two more years, he remembered the dull echo of the engagement ring when it rolled onto the floor.





	1. Hello, Goodbye

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PorkCutletBowl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PorkCutletBowl/gifts), [hotpinkdarkness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hotpinkdarkness/gifts), [lucycamui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucycamui/gifts), [oklles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/oklles/gifts).



> Long chapter-updates. Am I crazy? Perhaps. If a story is updating once per season, that’s about 4 times a year. I think long updates are justified then? So if you’re going to read this, have a bottle of water, some snacks, a pillow, a blanket, and some music to keep your mind occupied.
> 
> Last year, if you told me that I was doing a project as ambitious as this, I would’ve called you crazy. I guess I am crazy.

**_Diamonds:_** they were the business tycoons. Their system ran on finances, in every gold and silver. Not a hint of value was lost behind the white gloves, the various thingamabobs crunching out numbers across black screens, or through the whimsical eyes that saw a number behind every glass of wine.

There was an unnerving itch every time a price slid across a table. A _Diamond,_ hidden behind a giddy smile and signature gloves, would thumb through the notes. Absently at first, just enough to show interest before the bargaining began. Slowly through the transaction, the _Diamond’s_ thumb would caress the notes harder, faster. As if a calculator had been hooked to their mind, and they were tallying up the profit beneath their thumb.

A smile meant good fortune. A blank stare always followed a slew of contracts, little reminders of past good deeds and trivial favors. A frown meant there was a gun, under the table, pointed at the kneecaps as a threat if someone tried to run.

**_Clubs:_** they were the fighters. Every member, at minimum, had two weapons. The long-range usually consisted of firearms, but a few members were quite nimble with knives, darts, or a spool of wire. The short-range could’ve been anything: from a spoon at a dinner show to a fist that hadn’t been washed in weeks. The blood from the last, unruly victim still stained the knuckles, and the rusty color seemed to glow with every hit. Every hit fractured the bones until a _Club_ collapsed with manic laughter and a ruffled suit.

Fear was the first dish that a _Club_ liked to serve. Garnished on the side were empty threats that needed time to marinate before the impact was anything but empty. Poured into one of the tall glasses was a blacklist. Depending on where someone was or how close they were to the top, it spelled out the end of that victim’s meal. The second course came with poison. A _Club_ wiped the rim of the soup bowl clean with a white cloth. In the reflecting rim, the victim was read their last rights before dessert. For tonight’s dessert, there was cake. With every bite, a _Club_ relished in the experience until they stabbed into the last bite with a fork or spoon. Compliments were given to the chef before a dining cloth was thrown over the plate. The victim, left behind, with a bill to die for.

A smile meant that the job was done without a hitch. A blank stare meant that there was a game involved, and the crook of a smile towards the end revealed who the true winner was. A frown was a peculiar feature on a _Club’s_ face. When they touched their wound, blood seeping through their fingers and spilling onto the ground, they knew that they had a bill to pay.

**_Hearts:_** they were the kind of people who would aid a grandparent in carrying their groceries back home. In some ways, they were the unsung heroes behind the sudden decrease in crime. In some ways, they were the ordinary people that stood for what was right and acted upon it to protect the innocent in the ways they knew how. In other ways, the police were always chasing after them because every story needed a good villain to tell.

_Hearts_ knew how to bring people at ease. Their hands were firm, yet gentle. Before action, there were words. There were questions, leading up to and ending with words, that were designed to know when and how to draw a gun. The finger was never at the trigger unless a trigger word or phrase was used. A discreet bullet was as bad as a lie. If someone had to be “cut loose”, they deserved to know their end. Sooner than later, enough time for the mind to process what it needed to do before the final moments. A would always _Heart_ apologized, sincerely. They would ask and comfort someone as gently as possible for a bullet was aimed for the back of the head. The medulla was the perfect place. Quick and instant. Any pain was a fraction of a second long before there was sweet relief for an eternity. Or perhaps, the _Heart_ would like to see their victim’s face. From there, three bullets were needed. One for the base of the throat, one to puncture a lung, and the final was the nail to the heart.

A smile represented the joys of walking down a neighborhood road, proud that people felt safer. A blank stare came with the drop of a phone when someone was pronounced dead. A frown accompanied salty tears when a hand had to steady itself before the kill.

**_Spades:_** they were the unknown. Better yet, they were the informants. Their weapons were the keyboards and mouses that clicked away into the night. Their bombs were the loose slips of paper that could easily fall into a purse, squeeze pass twitchy fingers, and glide across an expansive space to reach their recipient.

They never killed, but for one exception.

 

 

“Mama, that can’t be all of the notes.” A little boy, _a little heir to his Mama’s business,_ looked up from a manila folder at the dining table.

The first hiss of a cracked egg over the frying pan distracted the youth long enough so that his Mama could close and tuck the notes on top of the refrigerator. When her son looked down at the table again, the empty space where his reading material used to be was replaced with a breakfast plate. There was blackened sausage with a slice of rye bread. Butter was on the knife, creamy and soft when smeared across the accompanying starch.

When scrambled eggs were added to the plate, Mama’s heart grew a little bigger when her son gobbled them up. The happiest sound was when the fork fell across the plate after the delicious meal.

“Mama?” The little boy climbed onto his Mama’s lap when she sat down at last. “Am I going to be a good…?” A firm crease emerged over the boy’s forehead when he thought long and hard on the word that his Mama taught him last night. _“Pakhan?”_ The word sounded so innocent, so sweet over the child’s tongue.

“Can you spell it for me?” Mama asked. Her son nodded. He spelled the word perfectly, and Mama planted so many kisses across her son’s cheeks. For what felt like an eternity, Mama and her son kissed, hugged, and laughed in the small, but warm kitchen. Resting her chin on the top of her son’s head, Mama asked, “Can you say it again?”

_“Pakhan.”_ The word came out as a whisper, as if it was a secret between the boy and his Mama. He kept whispering it until his Mama told him that he might become a Pakhan _sooner_ at this rate. The little boy stuck out his tongue, eyes glistening under the kitchen lights. His reddish cheeks burned even brighter at the small thought of what his Mama had said. “I want my dream to come true.” He puffed out his cheeks, and Mama wiped a happy tear from her eyes. The sweet drop hanging over the edge of her thumb before splashing across her son’s hand.

“I know you do.” Mama’s eyes shone with tender love. It was as if her heart was a pitcher, and it was overfilling. Her son was the little tea cup that caught all the love. Even then, the leftover love spilled onto the kitchen floor and stained the titles like a massacre.

With a single blink, Mama narrowed her eyes at the imaginary red, smeared across her dear child’s cheeks and her son rubbed the color deeper into his skin. Until his eyes had the same shadows, the same hunger, as his Mama’s. Even so, a single flick of reality washed over Mama’s eyes. Her fingers caressed the red hovering splattered across her son’s cheeks.

“Can you be my little boy for a little while longer?” Mama tilted her head.

A cheesy smile curved over her son’s lips. “Okay, Mama.”

Those words, _just those two,_ eased Mama’s heart, body, and soul. After the morning cuddles, Mama found her strength again. While she was at the sink, her son hovered by her leg. He tried to help, but he was too short to reach for anything. Mama grabbed a stool from under the sink, and she gave her son a sponge so that he could help clean. Rubbing elbows and trading imaginary stories, laughter spilled over the suds and hands that met in the soapy water. Just as Mama grabbed a plate, she froze when her son asked her,

“Mama, are you a _Pakhan?”_

For a moment, all Mama could hear were the riddle of bullets against a wooden crate. For a moment, all she could hear were the desperate breaths of her women and men, fighting on foreign territory. For a moment, Mama felt her husband’s hands in her own before they slipped away. For a moment, the soap over her hands stained like blood. For a moment, the plate in front of her shone like a gun with her splintered face as a reflection.

“Mama?”

Mama felt a little tug on her sleeve. She looked down and met her son’s eyes. He looked at her, a tilt to his head, and he wondered what was wrong. For a second earlier, his Mama had the brightest smile in the world. But now, Mama looked as if she was under a black veil, reciting the words guarded close to her heart at last year’s funeral. While Papa slept in his casket, too sleepy to sit up and say ‘goodbye’ before the world swallowed him up like a pill.

Her breaths steady, Mama picked up a plate and began to clean it. Scrubbing it thrice before handing to her son, a fire burning within her eyes.

“Yes, I am.”

Those same words, muttered under her breath, were the same ones that she had said when she took her husband’s role as _Pakhan_ of the family. She was the Queen and King of a deck of cards that held no purpose but to be played in a poker match with thieves, liars, and traitors.

“Who are the Jacks?” her son asked.

“They are the hitmen and women,” Mama said. She passed a frying pan to her boy. The pan was heavy in her son’s hands, but he was strong just like his Mama. He splashed water over all the soap before placing the pan on a rack to dry. Mama extended her fist for her son to bump, and he bumped her back. A trademark smile over his lips, just like his Mama’s smile.

“The Ace?”

Mama mused over the files tucked in her mind. “Important visitors. Good to keep them safe.”

Her son, _her Alexa,_ held his breath just so that he could whisper, _“The Joker?”_

Mama chuckled. Her son was a curious one. Already three and he wanted to know everything about the family’s business. Mama raised her boy well, but it was time for her to go to work. She promised Alexa that she‘d tell him more this afternoon. Mama stuck her tongue out when Alexa did so, and they danced around in the kitchen. Both tried to distract the other from what they wanted to do, but it didn’t work. It ended in laughter, and Mama pulled up a picture on her phone.

“This is--”

“It’s Big Brother!” Alexa squeaked.

_Right you are, sweetheart._ Mama gazed fondly at her phone’s screen. With a train ticket in his hand and a trench coat that snugged him too well, Viktor Nikiforov waved at Mama’s phone before she had the picture taken.

 

 

When Viktor rolled over in bed early that morning, a nose booped his neck. He opened his eyes, slowly at first. It was much too early for the sun to be out, but Viktor could make out the gold and orange illuminating just under the horizon.

Sometime during the night, Makkachin had pulled his curtains back as she dragged her nose along the carpeted floor. Following Viktor’s scent, Makkachin had climbed into bed and she built a nest on Viktor’s chest. Her great, big head rested over Viktor’s heart, and the reassuring rhythm had lulled her to sleep.

Right now, Viktor wiggled one of his hands free from his blanket. His fingers sank into Makkachin’s fur, and the poodle dug her paws into the blankets when Viktor scratched under her chin. Makkachin’s ears flopped around with every scratch, and she licked Viktor’s chin so that he would stop. Laughing softly, Viktor leaned forward and brushed his nose against Makkachin’s. He whispered her name until the poodle opened her eyes. She borked, and Viktor borked back. He couldn’t exactly imitate Makkachin’s sound, but it was close enough.

On a weekend like this, this was how Viktor started his day. Resting his arms around Makkachin, Viktor waited for the rest of his body to wake up. Little hills created by his toes moved around and ran under Makkachin’s tail. Makkachin turned and lifted her head. Her jaws snapped open for a yawn as her eyes followed Viktor’s wiggling toes. Viktor puffed out his chest when Makkachin got onto her feet. Her paws squishing at Viktor’s organs when she wandered to the other end of the bed. Makkachin gently grabbed one of the hills with her teeth, only to realize that it was her master’s toe.

Makkachin pawed at it. Viktor lifted his big toe slowly, and he dragged his blanket up to Makkachin’s belly so that he could give her a good tickle. Disturbed by the rising blanket, Makkachin hopped off the bed and jogged out the bedroom. The pitter patter of her feet accompanied Viktor’s laughter. Viktor had to make a mental note about this for Monday so that he could tell Mama and the rest of the family.

The laughter lasted only for so long before silence drifted into the room again. Without Makkachin’s warmth, Viktor’s hands were cold again. Folding his hands under his head, Viktor laid still in bed. What was he going to do today? Before he could answer, Viktor had to check his phone. It was somewhere on his nightstand, but Viktor didn’t remember where.

He reached out his left hand, and his fingers fumbled across the nightstand. After a few pats, he found one. Slick model, USB charger attached to its end, and with a clean screen. Nope, not that one. No one ever messaged Viktor on his _personal_ phone.

His fingers scooted it away and searched around the area. Viktor scooted closer to the edge of his bed so that he could reach farther. Near the very edge of his nightstand, he found his work phone. Much smaller than his personal, an older model with a keypad built onto it, but it was the phone Viktor needed. His thumb slid pressed the _OK_ button in the middle, and the screen lit up.

There were a few messages from the _Bratva,_ but they were mostly reminders and a few updates to safety protocols. Even so, Viktor sat up and read them carefully. At the very end, there was a message sent from Mama.

_ 6:34 a.m.  _ _  
**Mama:** I used to be the type of person that would stay in bed for an hour and not want to get up. Now, I can’t wait to jump out of bed and experience the love and companionship that we have as a family. How I kiss my boy every morning before starting my day, I wish I could kiss all of you the same._

A few heart and flower emojis riddled the end of Mama’s text. Bless her heart, for every emoji lifted her words. Warmth sprouted from Viktor’s phone, and the roots crawled up his arms and down his chest. The warmth anchored at Viktor’s heart when he brought the phone close and grazed his lips over Mama’s sweet message.

Today was the anniversary of when Mama became the _Pakhan_ of the family. Today was the day where Papa stepped down from his lines of duty, forcefully so. He could’ve easily been the _Pakhan_ for another forty years if Fate had been kinder. How many messages did Mama receive before her first cup of coffee? Thirty? A hundred? Literal thousands as family members reached out and thanked her? For the blessing that she was, for how strong her will and heart remained during the first months as the family’s _Pakhan,_ and for everything she had done so that no one felt left out.

Viktor wanted to send his own message, but his mind was empty and his stomach was even more so. He could almost hear Mama’s voice by his ear, telling him that he should eat and be happy first before doing something for her. Scratching the back of his neck, Viktor placed his work phone back onto the nightstand and shuffled out of the bedroom.

The carpeted floor beneath his feet turned into hardwood. Makkachin slipped off the couch and followed Viktor to the kitchen. The pitter patter of her paws offered a reassuring rhythm for Viktor’s heart to accompany as he poured food into a bowl and set by Makkachin’s usual spot.

While Makkachin climbed onto her stool for breakfast, Viktor shuffled from one end of the kitchen to the other. His fridge was rather sad. A few eggs in a carton, some vegetables bunched in a corner, and he had a full carton of milk. Scratch that, Viktor had about a third of a carton when he grabbed it off the shelf. Passing by the toaster, Viktor turned on his little radio before searching for a bowl and a box of cereal.

_“If you thought the crimes rates couldn’t get any lower, think again!”_

Viktor lowered his radio’s volume. Makkachin borked from her stool, and Viktor wore a strained smile when he turned to look at Makkachin. Every day, it felt like the radio had nothing better to talk about than crime rates and how low they were getting. Yes, it was nice and reassuring to be able to grocery-shop at night without getting mugged. Yes, it was great to know that no one was going to break into your home and hold you at gunpoint.

When the spokesperson for the morning spoke again, he commented about how the police departments in the area were receiving a bigger budget than ever before.

_“A ten percent gain, ladies and gentlemen! Small with math, but big with numbers!”_

Viktor crushed his milk carton as he poured some milk into his cereal bowl. Afterwards, when Viktor tipped his cereal into the bowl, he imagined the barrel of a gun about an inch away from his head.

_“When you see your officers, be sure to…”_ The voice from the radio faded from Viktor’s mind when he turned around. Staring at him, exhaling the breath of the law, was a faceless police officer that the public was _supposed_ to entrust their lives upon. Some weekends, it was a woman. Her finger at the trigger, ready to land a kill. Today, it was a man. He had every intention to beat Viktor into the worm that he was, just before the latter had his first taste of milk and cereal for the morning.

Through imaginary scenarios like this, it sharpened Viktor’s senses for when he had to deal with the _real_ thing. He struck first. His arm grazed the enemy’s chest as the imaginary officer moved out of the way and kicked Viktor against the kitchen counter. The force behind the slam nearly tipped Viktor’s cereal bowl over.

_Out of all the days…_ Viktor spat into his sink. Already, he could feel a bruise blossom over the side of his hip. Luckily, for Viktor, his imaginary opponent didn’t move or twitch until Viktor stood into his fighting stance.

Makkachin watched as Viktor punched, kicked, and cursed at... _seemingly nothing._ Just the air in front of him before hurling himself into another fixture in the kitchen. To the fridge, Viktor was pinned against the door. To the stove, where Viktor grabbed an overhanging frying pan and wielded it as a sword.

To Makkachin, Viktor’s strange morning routine was usually for fun and games. If he got hurt, it wasn’t too bad. However, when Viktor ended up on the floor, hissing in anguish, arms bound and crushed behind his back by an imaginary force...Well, Makkachin had to draw the line.

She leapt off from the dining stool and growled at the air above Viktor. Immediately, Viktor returned to reality. He shushed Makkachin gently and reassured her that he was okay. Viktor looked into her eyes, and all he saw was pain. Makkachin slowly brought herself back to ease, but she whimpered and licked at Viktor’s bruises and scratches. Her nose booped against Viktor’s chest. It was her way of saying that Viktor had gone too far with his little game.

“I’m sorry.” Viktor buried his face into Makkachin’s fur. _“I’m so sorry.”_

Makkachin pushed Viktor back with her paw. She licked his cheek, and Viktor was forgiven. His stomach grumbled when the embrace was done. Viktor rubbed his stomach, a tinge of pink riding high over his cheeks when he glanced to a random tile to his right.

“I should eat breakfast now.”

Makkachin borked before returning to her usual dining stool. Viktor rose to his feet and carried his bowl of cereal to the dining counter. His breakfast was mushy now, having gotten himself carried away with a morning fight routine. Nevertheless, when Viktor dug his spoon into the milky mush and brought it to his lips, it still tasted like cereal. That was all that mattered and Viktor enjoyed his morning in peace. Occasionally, he would reach over to Makkachin and give her scratches and some massages to ease the tension in her shoulders. Makkachin liked those moments. Her tail wagged around like a rudder, brushing against Viktor’s arm in the softest way.

The morning news behind them switched to some classical tunes as Viktor and Makkachin enjoyed their morning together. Just as Viktor was able to see the bottom of his cereal bowl, he heard his phone.

The rings didn’t bother Viktor, but his heart couldn’t find peace until he touched his work phone. Viktor steadied his breathing when he brought it up to ear.

“Yes, Mama?”

_“I’m sorry for bothering you like this--”_

“Not at all,” Viktor blurted out. He apologized for interrupting her, and Mama told him that he was fine.

_“I have an assignment for you.”_ Viktor could hear the smile in Mama’s tone. _“What’s a good time for you?”_

 

 

When Viktor was tall enough to nestle his cheek against his mother’s hand while they walked, he was old enough to enjoy the train. He would stand behind his mother; glance around at the towering train-goers and the myriad of windows around the train station. After exchanging her money for two train tickets, Mrs. Nikiforov gently squeezed her son’s hand. Like an excitable pup, Viktor hopped with every step as he and his mother went down the station to catch their train. Viktor wanted to get there as soon as possible, but Mrs. Nikiforov would often hold him back.

Sometimes, she liked to browse through the magazine racks and catch up on the weekly news. Sometimes, Mrs. Nikiforov pointed at the pigeons and little doves that trooped around the underground station. Viktor would chirp and ask his mother how the birds got down here, and Mrs. Nikiforov would say that the birds wanted to catch the train too.

Those little moments were what made the waits bearable when Viktor and his mother came down the station a bit early.

But in those occasions where they came just in time for the train, Viktor would squeeze his mother’s hand. Down the tunnel, a snake with beaming eyes was rushing into the station. A whistle echoed through the darkness, the sudden gust that followed blew Viktor’s bangs in every which way. Viktor truly believed that if his mother wasn’t next to him, he would fly away.

Therefore, when an adult Viktor came down the station’s steps with a train ticket in his hand, bound to his glove because it was a chilly morning, Viktor imagined that his mother was walking beside him. Her strong steps, her guiding arm, led Viktor to where he needed to be. Hunched under his trench coat, the echoes from his dress shoes against the concrete, Viktor looked like any other train-goer. Places to go, people to see. People passed by him in a current, and Viktor was strolling against the current.

When Viktor arrived to where his train should be, he followed the tracks until there were only lights behind him. Flickering lights of the station, but they soon faded the farther Viktor ventured into the tunnel. The ledge space on either side of the tracks grew smaller. Viktor pressed his back against the walls and shuffled along. When his toes began to stick out from the ledge, he knew he was approaching the entrance to the hideout. From his trench coat, Viktor yanked out a flashlight and waved it in the darkness. A handle appeared, about a foot away.

Viktor thought of his mother and of her firm steps. He thought of how she always held his hand when they were waiting for the train. Right now, Viktor felt her warmth at his fingertips. Breathing softly, Viktor shuffled a little farther before he had to stop. The tunnel and the darkness rumbled underneath his feet and against his back. A train was coming.

Viktor had a choice. He could either wait for the train to pass, and inevitably lose a chunk of his face. On the other hand, Viktor could bolt, open the entrance wide, and shut it behind him. He had fifteen seconds. Viktor figured that he needed his face.

He sprinted. His hands fumbled at the door handle, wondering why nothing was happening. Viktor winced when the approaching train lights blinded him. Despite that, he kept pulling at the handle until the door sprung open.

Viktor barely slipped himself inside before the train barreled past him. Shutting the door behind him and crushing his fingers the whole time. For now, he was alive and probably, his fingers were too. Pain sprinted up and down his right hand, his right arm, and Viktor needed a moment to collect himself.

When his breathing steadied, Viktor stuck his flashlight between his teeth and moved forward. Around were wired cages, keeping electrical appliances a good distance away from Viktor as he maneuvered around a dark maze. Occasionally, dust fell from the ceiling when a train rumbled by, somewhere in the station.

Viktor pulled out his work phone and scrolled through this morning’s messages for the new directions to the hideout. After what felt like an hour of shuffling through the darkness, Viktor found the door he was looking for. He deposited his train ticket into a box on the other side, and the door softly clicked behind Viktor.

In some ways, the hideout looked a lot like a bar. Without the alcohol.

There were a few squishy couches and armchairs, on the counter to Viktor’s right there was the fridge and a few ingredients laid out for Mama’s snack in the afternoon. Sections of the walls were cut out to house books for casual reading and for board games when some family members brought their children to work. Mama liked those days, and her son had a few friends to play with when he came to work as well. But those memories died in the back of Viktor’s mind when he adjusted his tie.

Today, the hideout wasn’t a comfy place to seek refuge from the real world’s problems. Viktor crossed through the room and knocked on Mama’s door with his good hand. His shoes rubbed into the welcome mat when he heard a, _“Come in.”_

Viktor slipped out of his dress shoes and laid them on Mama’s mat before opening the door. Inside, Mama was slowly working through a ball of yarn, a colorful scarf falling onto her lap as she knitted slowly under a lamp light. Her spectacles were about a centimeter away from falling off her nose before Mama looked up from her work. She greeted Viktor with a smile, and Viktor greeted with a bow.

“Apology for changing the usual route.” Mama set her knitting equipment to the side and offered a steaming cup of tea. Viktor brought the cup to his lips before sitting into his seat, right across from Mama.

“Apology accepted.” Viktor savored his sip before setting his cup down. “Cinnamon?”

“I know how you like your spices.” A bit of a hum trailed from Mama’s lips when she refilled Viktor’s cup. She topped it off well, and Viktor nursed his drink for a good minute or two. Mama offered to feed him some cookies that she had bought earlier that morning, and Viktor politely declined. Setting his cup down again, Viktor folded his hands on Mama’s desk.

“What are the details behind my assignment?”

“Not so fast, Viktor. You’ve just gone through a harrowing ordeal.” Mama noticed how Viktor carefully hid his twitching fingers underneath his palm. “Are you hurt? Did you lose anything?”

Viktor brushed his bangs to the side. “Thankfully, not my face.”

A good chuckle brought a smile to Mama’s face before she asked for Viktor’s hand.

“Your right hand, child.”

Viktor extended his hand, and a whistle escaped between his teeth when Mama cradled it gently over her palms. She carefully pulled off Viktor’s glove and pressed her lips against the bruised fingers. A small kiss for every pain that shot up Viktor’s arm, but the throbs began to subside. Bit by bit, Mama worked her simple magic to bandage Viktor’s wounds.

“Just a little while longer, we can have the original route to the hideout again.” Mama re-gloved Viktor’s right hand before slouching back in her leather seat. “The officers have been cracking down on the station lately.”

“A worm in the family?” Viktor suggested.

Mama rested a heavy hand over her heart. “I hope not. A scolding is never easy. For me and them,” she added before taking a bite out of one of her cookies.

She reached into her cabinets and pulled out a case file. She pushed it to Viktor, and he waited a moment before glancing down. Mostly papers and words and a profile he had to memorize. No pictures as of now, but Viktor didn’t get his chance. For when Mama spoke, Viktor always brought his eyes up to give her his full attention, despite the curiosity laced between his fingers.

“An Ace from Japan will be arriving tonight for trust bonds,” Mama explained before biting another chunk of her cookie.

“Finances?”

“Typically, an ask for trust bonds would indicate so.” Mama set her sweet aside and leaned forward across her desk. Her voice barely rose above a whisper. _“However, they’re really in it for the trust.”_

Viktor whispered as well. _“So protection?”_

Mama nodded. “With patrols around the train station at the moment, it isn’t wise to bring the Ace here for right now. I need you to distract them until the situation is…” Mama drummed her fingers against her desk. _“Under control.”_

Viktor glanced down at himself before meeting Mama’s gaze again. “With what, exactly?”

“Sightseeing, keep them occupied, and definitely keep them safe. Word through the grapevine, the Ace’s fingers are worth their weight in gold.” A heavy sigh escaped from Mama’s lips. “On top of that, the _Clubs_ have been closing in on our borders. Open fire is ill advised if we can avoid it. But if things get hairy out there while you’re body guarding, I’ll take responsibility if you shoot.” Mama pressed one of her hands over the case file and lifted the other as a solemn vow.

“Mama, but it’ll be my--”

“It’ll be my fault for having trained you too well.” Mama winked before lowering her hand. With that done, Mama finished her cookie and returned to her knitting. Viktor slouched back in his seat. His mind still numb from Mama’s proposal, but her words of reassurance began to chip into his thoughts. The steady rhythm of Mama’s needles helped bring peace to Viktor’s mind, and he watched Mama for quite a while before he asked her for whom she was knitting for.

Mama’s rested her needles and the scarf onto her lap.  “Papa likes his neck warm on a day like this.” Her bright tone seemed to fade when she looked up from her needles and saw the tears welled in Viktor’s eyes. She rested her needled across her lap, a heavy smile weighing down her lips. _“You know how Papa doesn’t like crying,”_ Mama whispered under her breath. _“But he cries too and doesn’t hide it.”_

Rising from her seat, Mama asked if Viktor wanted a hug. He nodded and Mama opened her arms. Viktor got up slowly and fell into Mama’s embrace. She drew little circles and squares across Viktor’s shoulder and patted his back. Tears stained the crook of her shoulder, but Mama didn’t mind.

As she hugged Viktor and shushed softly in his ear, there was a bright candle on top of Mama’s cabinet. A smoking cigar laid in front of it, and there was another one just a few inches away. Almost like two people kissing, but it was the smoke that connected the couple than mere touch alone.

 

 

It was the smoke that trailed from Viktor’s lips when he stepped out from a black _Lexus_ later that night _._ His back against the driver’s door, a cigarette from Mama between his fingers to ease his mind. When the leftover ash fell and struck against the concrete, Viktor entered the airport. His bangs swept over his eyes. His version of hiding behind a pair of shades. Viktor may’ve stuck out like a sore thumb with his suit and tie, but there were other bodyguards roaming in the airport tonight.

Some prominent names were striking their heels down Moscow’s runway, and Viktor blended into the scene when top models were escorted out with a team of agents at their disposal. Viktor pressed the earpiece in his ear, and he received information on the _Ace’s_ general appearance.

_“Hair slick back, glasses, and he has a briefcase.”_

Viktor coughed into his elbow. Lips hidden from the crowd, he muttered, “Safe word?”

_“Onsen.”_

Viktor couldn’t help but chuckle. A peculiar safe word for a peculiar _Ace._ Viktor liked that. Lowering his elbow from his face, Viktor’s face returned to its usual blank slate before he strolled.

He was approaching the terminal where Japan’s _Boeing 737-800_ had docked for the night. Hands rested in front of him, Viktor kept his eye on the exit when he waited by some velvet lines. A few bodyguards approached and stood on either side of him, ready to pick up their lucky _Ace_ for the runway in downtown. A crook of a smile tugged Viktor’s lips, but he hid it as people emerged from the exit.

A mingled group spilled out. Viktor scanned the crowd. He could safely rule out glasses for now since everywhere he looked, he saw his reflection in a pair of spectacles. Some men carried briefcases, but they didn’t match the description Viktor was given beforehand.

Viktor touched his earpiece again. “What terminal is the _Ace_ arriving at?”

_“Which terminal are you at?”_

Viktor eyes caught a sign in the middle of the area. He said the name quickly, and the family’s informant told Viktor that he was at the correct terminal.

_“You probably missed them. Go find them.”_

“No need for a command,” Viktor muttered under his breath. He weaved through groups of tourists and brushed elbows with models along the way, but he couldn’t find the _Ace_ that he was looking for. He went through the checklist of descriptions that he was given.

Slick hair, glasses, and a briefcase. They were too general. Viktor needed something else.

_“Asian,”_ his informant said.

“That is 99.9 percent of the people that came off that flight.” Viktor gritted his teeth. “I need something a little more specific.” Viktor couldn’t hear what his informant said next.

A group of elderly tourists shuffled by and asked Viktor if they could take a selfie with him. Probably because they thought if he was here, a fancy model was just a vodka bottle away, or something. Before Viktor could respond, he had a grandfather to his right and the man’s grandson squished to his left. All of the tourists extended their selfie sticks and the oncoming flashes irritated Viktor’s eyes.

He had experienced flash bombs, and the havoc they had on his retinas during a CT Classified Mission. Viktor had experienced the idiocy of lighting a flare up close, and how he couldn’t open his eyes properly for days. By some Hell, phone flashes were equally or worse than those past two experiences combined. At least, in the moment with Viktor’s mind in disarray.

All he could see were flashing and fading dots when he stumbled away after all the selfies were taken. Viktor wobbled, weak in the knees. His hands grasped the first fixture that he found, and he tried to steady himself. His breaths were short as they came.

Viktor collapsed into a waiting seat at the terminal, blinking at his shoes until his vision stabilized. By then, he was able to hear his informant and she asked Viktor if he was alright. Just before Viktor could reply, someone wrapped their arm around Viktor’s shoulders. A phone faced him and the stranger. Viktor turned his head away, hoping that the tourist would understand the hint.

“That’s not a face a bodyguard should make.” Soft laughter brushed against Viktor’s ear, flushing red down the side of his head and to his neck.

Viktor recognized this voice. It was the same voice that used to tuck him to bed at night, the same voice that he would stay up late and listen to when the sun couldn’t shine through the rain, and it was the same voice that reminded Viktor of the lonely engagement ring hidden in his closet. Never to see the light of day again, but it was this voice that reminded Viktor of what love felt like. Of how young, unpredictable, warm, and beautiful a first love could be.

When he lifted his head and stared straight into the person’s phone, Viktor saw himself on the screen. Flushed in every manner of red and pink, from ears to the collarbone that his navy tie hid. Holding Viktor like he had never left, with a sincere smile that used to haunt Viktor in his dreams, was Yuuri.

Yuuri’s glasses were hanging off his suit’s collar, his hair slicked back as if he was a runway model, and there was a briefcase pressed between his legs when he decided to sit next to Viktor.

When Viktor turned away, Yuuri didn’t see his face.

Now that he could, Yuuri was the one averting his gaze. He was the one that turned his face away, and Viktor caught Yuuri’s wrist before the latter could run away. Not like how Yuuri had done over a year ago, but Viktor needed reassurance. Reassurance, that this wasn’t a dream and that this growing pit in his stomach was from dinner’s sandwiches than from something else.

_“What are you doing here?”_ The slip into Japanese caught Viktor before he realized it. He never stopped learning, even when Yuuri fell from his life.

_“I could ask you the same.”_ The familiar voice, mixed with those Russian words and the softness behind every syllable, meant one thing. Yuuri hadn’t lost his touch with the language, either.

 

* * *

 

Twenty-two was the magic number to dial when Viktor experienced his first love. The arbitrary exchange of numbers and usernames, restless nights gazing fondly at a phone screen, and a whirlwind of dates. All of these rituals, these _codes_ that Viktor would admire or decipher from a far, they suddenly made sense.

When he heard Yuuri speak for the first time, it was at a Winter Olympics.

Coming down the aisle, peeling out from his coat, Viktor cursed under his breath. His eyes locked on the skating rink in the middle of the performance arena when the last skater for the evening caught a flower tiara and bowed. The wisps of her hair nearly touched her nose before she lifted her gaze, her head and smile. Cameras flashed, like scattered dots along a background, when Viktor dropped into his seat.

Viktor buried his face against his hands. He lifted his gaze; his bangs slid over and blocked his vision. Viktor blew his hair to the side. The fringe flopped back against his face. Viktor brushed it aside, but the Laws of Annoyance dragged it back.

A few minutes before, just as Viktor was settling in for the last performance of the night, his phone rang. Viktor glanced at the screen. In bold characters with a urinal for a profile, Nature left a message. Against all his better judgement at the time, Viktor bolted to the restrooms. By some struck of luck, there were televisions to and fro when Viktor started and finished his business. At every corner, he caught sight of a _Triple Axel_ or another quad that he was missing in person.

With the myriad of groups and minglers in the halls, it would’ve been easier if Viktor parkoured. However, every security camera and every smile from a passing officer reminded Viktor who he was and of who he wasn’t.

Outside the Olympic facility, he was a criminal. Branded with a scar and cigar, faceless for the most part, because criminals were beyond the clarity of the Law. However, here with his seat ticket and snuggled under a scarf, Viktor was just another body. Another count that filled a seat in the performance arena.

Here, Viktor sat in his seat with a grim face. Hands pressed together in a prayer, Viktor mumbled under his breath that he should’ve parkoured when he had the chance. Yuuri, who was sitting next to him at the time and Viktor didn’t know his name yet, turned his head when he heard Viktor. Already a sweating mess under his scarf, Viktor didn’t mind when his bangs scooted and covered the rest of his face. He tried to look away, but his eyes remained on Yuuri.

When Yuuri spoke, with the best English that he had, he quietly described the ending to the free skate of _Pavane._

Though he stuttered, adjusted his glasses, coughed, and blushed when Viktor shifted his face to look at him properly, it didn’t matter that the descriptions weren’t the best. It didn’t matter that Yuuri had to glance down at a clipboard on his lap-- _he wanted to tally his personal scores for every performance--_ and apologize for the inaccuracies in his numbers. It didn’t matter that Yuuri paused in the middle of his explanation and asked, _“Am I bothering you?”_

In a span of a hundred and fifteen seconds, Yuuri had captured Viktor’s attention. Was it the passionate accent behind every word? Was it the gold, glimmering behind Yuuri’s eyes when he spoke with such enthusiasm? For in those brief moments, Viktor felt as if he was only one man against a desolate world. Moreover, somewhere along the way, Yuuri accompanied him.

 

Somewhere along the way, Viktor made an album. Every turn of the page rekindled an old memory. His fingers caressed against the aged-photographs, felt a few through the plastic and replayed a memory. One photo, at a time.

 

His first taste of ice cream with Yuuri, having ran around St. Petersburg’s fountain until they were breathless and starved for contact. How the sunlight filtered through Yuuri’s hair, a glowing crown over his head when he danced through the water like a swan. His shoes slipped across the concrete, re-enacting his own version of a free skate. The poise in his arms, the sudden kick of his legs before a spin. Viktor watched from the sidelines, already soaked from head to toe. An ice cream cone in one hand, a popsicle in another. For a while, Viktor forgot that they were there because Yuuri’s body was made to dance. Every shift and change along his body resonated a new note or harmony. The squeaks of Yuuri’s shoes when he slid. Viktor’s popsicle flew into the air. Viktor caught Yuuri; his hand resting just under the latter’s hip. When the popsicle fell back to Earth, Yuuri caught it and asked if Viktor wanted a taste.

 

Online chatting and video calls were almost foreign concepts to Viktor when he initiated the first conversations. On discord? Viktor added emojis in their private chats, color rising to his cheeks when Yuuri up-voted a few of the emojis that Viktor tagged him with. Their love for skating drove the talks at first. It was a common ground that both men shared, whether it was figure, single, doubles, or speed. Slowly but surely, one or the other grew bold and reflected on more personal aspects of their lives. Viktor mentioned that he worked at a train station. Not a lie, but any mentions of Mama and her family didn’t happen when Viktor’s fingers tap-danced across his keys. His laptop rested over his stomach late into those nights, nearly tipping over when Yuuri said something funny or an epic video was shared on the chat. Hovering at the foot of the bed, Makkachin watched as her master grew brighter with each passing second. The smiles over his lips shone brightest after a bout of laughter.

 

Makkachin had her choice of fun when she tackled Yuuri at the front door of the apartment space. Yuuri was visiting for the week, hoping to make it a surprise, but Makkachin wanted to leave her first impression on Yuuri. So with her fur and slobber across his face, Yuuri greeted Viktor when the latter raced out of his kitchen with a frying pan. Yuuri tucked his hands behind his back and guessed that Viktor would have to arrest him now. The “evidence” of his “break-in” already documented by Makkachin, and the standard poodle wheeled Yuuri’s luggage past the threshold and into the living room. Viktor held his frying pan behind his back. He approached Yuuri, ever-so carefully with a spring to his step. His fingers caressed over a towel on the couch, and Viktor patted Yuuri’s face dry. Three inches separated their faces, a towel blocking their lips from the other’s. Lost in Yuuri’s eyes, Viktor found himself in the latter’s arms. Yuuri swept Viktor off his feet with ease and winked. If Viktor dropped his guard, Yuuri would’ve ran through St. Petersburg with his heart.

 

When Viktor reached for his clothes after a soak in the hot springs, a little bump moved around in his basket. His fingers touched a squishy nose, and a toy-poodle leapt out. When Yuuri came into the changing room, a courtesy towel around his waist, he found Viktor on the floor. Melting, because Vicchan curled himself over Viktor’s chest. His tiny borks were music to Viktor’s ears, and he was powerless when Vicchan slid off of his body and cuddled next to him instead. The first time Viktor melted, it was when he met Yuuri’s family earlier that night and how they stuffed him with pork cutlet bowls. It was a beautiful dish, crafted by an angel, and Viktor truly believed so when he glanced across the dining table and witnessed pure bliss painted across Yuuri’s face. The second time Viktor melted; it was when Yuuri invited him to take a dip in the hot spring. The steam cloaked Viktor’s body before he slid into the water. His shoulder brushed against Yuuri’s on the way down. A courtesy towel sprawled over their laps while they enjoyed the peace of each other’s company. After the third time Viktor melted, granted it was Vicchan’s fault, he regained his senses when Yuuri sat next to him.

“If someone walks in, I’ll tell them that I’m keeping you company.”

Safe to say, Viktor melted for a fourth time.

 

One of Viktor’s favorite pastimes when he and Yuuri were together was summed into a simple question: _Can I kiss you?_

Whether their umbrella was forgotten on the ground when he and Yuuri ran through puddles in the pouring rain. Whether they bumped their chopsticks before enjoying a meal together. Whether it was late at night, sleep hovering over Viktor’s eyes when he rested his head against Yuuri’s chest. A movie played in the background, a scene of a meadow illuminating over Yuuri’s glasses when he met Viktor’s gaze. Viktor reached up and pulled Yuuri’s glasses off. The wisp of his hair tickled Viktor’s fingers. The space between them, bridged by Viktor’s touch. Bridged by a kiss when Yuuri met Viktor’s lips.

 

How three years flew by in cinematic blur. It was a midsummer’s eve when Yuuri wrapped a string around his ring finger, upon Viktor’s request. Beyond his webcam, Viktor had a notebook and a pen. He scribbled a down number when Yuuri’s measurement was done.

 

Four years into the relationship, a sigh trailed from Yuuri’s lips. _“Let’s end this.”_

The engagement ring rolled out from Viktor’s fingers and _clanked_ against his bedroom floor.

 

* * *

 

His mirror soften the jagged edge across his complexion when Viktor glanced up at his reflection. His tie was finished, a neutral dark resting against a red background. A lure, a hook, for an unexpected eye. Viktor caught his breath before the sigh. After smoothing his tie against his chest, Viktor ran his fingers through his bangs. Every curl and snag jogged a memory from last night. _His hair was stiffer than usual._ The final touch was when Viktor folded his collar, pressing firmly with his palms for an ironed-look. _His hands had never been this frail._ Viktor pulled away from himself.

Dare say, he looked just about ready for a date. The only thing missing was a bouquet of flowers, but Viktor had a decent handful of guns when he strapped into his holster belt. A firearm on either side of his chest, and a toothpick in his back pocket for a quick-draw at the grocery later tonight. For when Viktor was by himself, a normal man amongst the living. But on a morning like this and for the subsequent mornings after, Viktor was a bodyguard.

Bright colors were quick to lure attention, and a sniper would notice Viktor first. Enough time for Yuuri to duck and hide, or run as far as he could. Blend into the background while Viktor called the shots. Viktor hadn’t perfected his quick-draw for nothing, all those months ago when he killed first before a _Club_ aimed at him.

Gunpowder fresh over his tongue, Viktor walked out of his bathroom. The pitter patter of his feet ended when tile ended at carpet. On Viktor’s bed were a few suit jackets to choose from. But as he got closer, his eyes wandered to the top drawer of his nightstand. The compartment, he hadn’t opened in years, stared back at him. More fitting for a cigar at its edge than a thick layer of dust when Viktor skimmed his thumb over the rim. When he pulled the drawer back, Viktor lifted the cloth off from a leather-bound album. Stitched across the cover were his initials and a faded Y.K.

A poor attempt, on Viktor’s part, when he tried to remove the stitching with a switchblade. Speaking of which, where was his...? Viktor exhaled softly and brought his finger to his lips. His suit jacket was never complete without a secret inside the breast pocket, as the old saying went or whether. Though his finger throbbed, the bleeding subsided just enough so that Viktor could hide his wound against his palm. With his other hand, Viktor picked up his old album and thumbed through the pages. Memories, vibrant and alive through the plastic screen, whirled past Viktor’s eyes. When his thumb reached the last page, he found cursive writing. _His_ cursive writing.

Viktor pulled out a script he had written two years ago, a script he had meant to memorize and recite to a certain love in Hasetsu. The paper felt so fragile between his fingers, and Viktor’s lips twitched when he read his proposal. At the tender age of twenty-six when this was written, Viktor had nothing better to say than reassurance if Yuuri cried at the drop of a knee. Perhaps, these were the words Yuuri was meant to say if Viktor cried instead. On the other hand, perhaps, Yuuri would say the proposal from his heart, but Viktor never got to hear those words and this script in his hands was sadder than useless. Granted, it was on a sliver of a napkin.

However, the words imparted by his younger self-spurred nostalgia in Viktor’s heart. His fingers trembled, nearly crushing his fine cursive. Viktor tucked the script carefully back into the album and locked his memories away. He opened the drawer and lowered the album to its grave. The familiar silk drew over the leather, and the grave was left undisturbed. Dared to never be seen, but Viktor left the drawer partially open so that he could relive his memories. One by one, if it was enough to quell his heart after today.

Outside his bedroom door, the pitter patter of Makkachin’s steps came first before the poodle peeked past the door. She ran up to give Viktor morning kisses. Her nose brushed against Viktor’s toes before she stood on her hind legs. Her paws rested against Viktor’s chest for support. Viktor closed his eyes when Makkachin licked his cheeks, and he threw his arms around her shoulders. They circled around each other’s feet, enjoying the warmth and company. Eventually, Makkachin slipped away from the waltz when the burden on her legs was too much to bear. Sitting on the floor, Makkachin shook her body while Viktor slipped into a black suit jacket.

His hand slid across his nightstand, brushing against his car keys and his phones. His personal phone rested inside his suit. His work phone snuggled into his front pocket. His car keys looped around his finger before Viktor wished Makkachin the best. A booming bark echoed in reply.

About five minutes later, Viktor was down the road in the same _Lexus_ from the night before _._ His fingers drummed against the steering wheel. His eyes flickered from the lights ahead to his rear-view mirror. Where in a few moments, Yuuri would be there. Sitting, legs crossed with his face rested against his knuckles. Staring, the beauty of St. Petersburg just beyond the window and his fingers could only touch the images against the glass. Quiet, no word to say because other than yesterday, it had been two years since he was this close to Viktor.

Heartbreak, Viktor knew it wouldn’t happen, but the imaginary-Yuuri staring at him through the rear-view mirror would mention it. How things have gotten awkward, and how familiar touches felt so cold. If imaginary-Yuuri’s eyes were switchblades, they bore their marks when Viktor missed the median he needed to turn at. He stared back at the road. Even though he was alone in the car, glancing back at the rear-view mirror raised the hairs on the back of Viktor’s neck. He breathed softly, steadily, and moved forward when a red light turned green. Viktor u-turned and entered a hotel’s parking lot.

Not much to say about it, but it was a cozy complex that accommodated for anything. Especially for hiding an _Ace_ under the radar when a patrol car drove past Viktor. Viktor didn’t turn his head. The corner of his eye noticed the blurred outlines of two officers. They weren’t looking at him, or maybe the one in the passenger seat did when she saw the red around Viktor’s collar. However, the tint in the windows made it hard for her to look. Viktor smiled, free from handcuffs for at least another while, before he approached the hotel’s entrance.

“Just like how you rehearsed,” he whispered to himself, watching how imaginary-Yuuri faded from the backseat. Viktor loosened his tie before he pulled out his personal phone. Without looking, his thumbs dialed a familiar set of numbers before Viktor rested the phone against his ear. It took one ring before he got his reply. Yuuri was hesitant on the line, not daring to speak, so Viktor broke the ice.

“Morning, it’s me.” Viktor could imagine a scowl on Yuuri’s face.  Was it unprofessional for a bodyguard to greet his client like this, so casually? However, that scowl turned to a smile that Yuuri hid with the back of his hand, though Viktor wasn’t in the hotel suite to see it. “I’m at the front in a black _Lexus.”_

_“You called me on your personal phone.”_ If this was a lecture, it was surprisingly gentle. Or if not, it was a roundabout way to say: _You still remember/have my number._

“I can hang-up and call from my work phone,” Viktor suggested, a familiar tease across his tone. A slight _hic_ from the other line, a twitching Yuuri his thumb nail between his teeth so he wouldn’t laugh. Not in a haughty or in a sour way, but the kind of laugh that could easily break the tension, crack the glacier, between them.

_“Let’s make this clear.”_ Viktor glanced at his rear-view mirror, and imaginary-Yuuri returned with arms crossed across his chest. _“I don’t know you. You don’t know me.”_

A simple truth that Viktor could stand beside. In the four years that they dated, Viktor never suspected that Yuuri would turn to a mafia for aid. On the same token, Viktor never mentioned the true nature of his profession. All in all, he and Yuuri were at a truce with one another, willing to continue this engagement if the past never surfaced.

The charms Viktor could’ve said were best saved for later, but his wit was as sharp as his aim. “I would say that coincidence was what brought us together, but we can change the arrangements if you prefer.”

_“The engagement is fine the way it is.”_ If there was more to say, Viktor didn’t hear it. When he lowered his phone after the call, his eyes shifted to the right and met Yuuri’s. Yuuri clicked on his Bluetooth earpiece as he approached the black _Lexus,_ a casual shuffle to his gait. Thick frames, not like the thin spectacles from last night, hugged the bridge of Yuuri’s nose. A yellow sweater, a white dress shirt peeking over the collar and the cuffs were folded at the end of his sleeves, hugged Yuuri and gave him a classic look. Almost as if Yuuri was a college student again, and Viktor was the sugar that kept his cupcake sweet when pink hovered at Yuuri’s neck.

“I think I overdressed for the occasion.” Viktor adjusted the rear-view mirror when Yuuri got into the car. Yuuri’s reflection glazed over his eyes before Viktor turned his rear-view properly.

“As long as we’re not seen together, you’re fine the way you are.”

In an earlier time, the statement meant that Yuuri enjoyed Viktor for who he was. The meaning wasn’t lost, though the words were different now and the distance Yuuri tried to establish for himself. Professionalism, it wasn’t. No matter how stern Yuuri tried to sound because a hint of a smile curved over his lips from the second-half of what he had said. Viktor eased his thumping heart, afraid that Yuuri could hear it from where he sat.

When Viktor pulled out from the hotel, his mind wasn’t steering the car for his emotions did all the work. His grip on the steering wheel loosened just a tad, enough where Viktor could listen and respond to the morning chatter that Yuuri engaged him with. Whatever butterflies that had roosted in Viktor’s chest from this morning and the previous night, they flew away when Yuuri apologized for his earlier behavior.

“It’s hard, having to pretend that I don’t know you.” Yuuri rested his head against the window. “All of a sudden, Fate has us meeting again and I went on autopilot.”

“Are you still on it?” Viktor met Yuuri’s gaze through the rear-view mirror. Yuuri winked at him slowly, with both eyes. His voice, so sweet on a morning like this, laced with a threat that sweetened his affections.

_“It depends if this talk is being recorded or not.”_ Whether the whisper was intentional or not, the nostalgia that blossomed behind Viktor’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Yuuri.

That look, the endless possibilities that could hint to its meaning, reminded Yuuri of the last time he and Viktor saw each other, face to face through a screen. Before Yuuri broke the relationship, before Viktor mentioned that he had something to say but around the bush, Viktor’s words were lost in in the tangled silence between them after.

When Yuuri lifted his head from the car window, Viktor found parking by an outdoor, shopping plaza. Tender wafts from the local food stands wandered into the car when Viktor rolled down his window by a sliver. The breeze followed in, brushing his bangs with the lightest kisses. From a nearby booth, a few bubbles wandered down the parking lot. Swirling like autumn’s snowflakes and Viktor caught one over his pinkie. He brought it into the car and blew it to Yuuri’s seat. Balanced over his knuckles, Yuuri leaned close until the bubble popped under the pressure. A while followed a snort from the driver’s seat, and Yuuri asked Viktor why there were in the car when could just... _go out._

“I thought you’d never ask.” Viktor’s tie fell between his fingers when he pulled it off.

Yuuri didn’t hide his smile when Viktor got out of the car. A spring to his step when Viktor wandered around his car until he opened Yuuri’s door. HIs hand extended, and Yuuri reached out. They held each other, loosely around the fingers, while walking through a path littered with pinwheels. Of every hue and variety, every pinwheel turned when they passed by.

Strung by his own awe, Yuuri almost forgot with whom he was with until Viktor squeezed his hand. Yuuri had stopped, wanting to touch a pinwheel with a soft poke, but Viktor had to keep Yuuri moving. Not just for safety-sake, but because there were more wonders to capture Yuuri’s eyes.

“Let’s not get carr--” Yuuri began to say, his voice trailing when he walked again. His eyes still on the pinwheel that had caught his gaze.

Viktor rubbed the back of Yuuri’s hand with his thumb. “As your escort, it’s my duty to keep you entertained.” Lost after words were: _“In any way I know how.”_

For a moment, Viktor forgot that he was a bodyguard. He forgot that Yuuri was a client, and that they were here to waste time for Mama’s sake. But perhaps, if Viktor closed his eyes, he could believe that they were here, set by Fate to enjoy each other’s company. With what little time they had left before the inevitable goodbye.

When Viktor opened his eyes, bunnies and bears popped up from his peripheral. He squeezed Yuuri’s hand so that they could quietly examine the merchandise. The plushies were all in a row. Some had neutral faces, two dots and a curve for a face. Others had emotive faces, the kind that took no words in describing how they felt. Yuuri picked up a bunny plush, the one that had a heart-shaped smile. He took one glance at it, looked up at Viktor, and asked the seller how much it cost.

Viktor reached for his wallet. “I’ll pay.”

A slick, rubble note appeared between Yuuri’s fingers. “No, I’ll pay.”

Viktor slid his money across the seller’s booth. “I insist.”

“I’m buying this for you.” Yuuri nudged Viktor’s hand aside with the bunny plush, and the seller took his money. The bills flipped through with a deft thumb. While Yuuri counted out his change, Viktor noticed a peculiar plush at Yuuri’s end of the row. There was a bear plush with a drooling mouth and watery eyes. Viktor tilted his head to the side, eyes flickering from its face and to Yuuri’s. Viktor gestured to the plush and asked the seller how much it cost.

“Same as this one.” The seller gave Yuuri his bunny plush. Another exchange was made: money slid across the booth and Viktor got Yuuri his present. Yuuri slapped Viktor’s arm, playfully. Mumbling to Viktor what memory he thought of when he saw the bear, and Viktor tiptoed around his response. Perhaps, he mentioned a certain memory that involved pork cutlet bowls, and Yuuri whispered that he couldn’t help himself. Viktor agreed, the memory of Mama Katsuki’s food hovering over his tongue when he cradled his bunny plush in his arms.

For a while, silence played her harp over the rekindled couple. Slowly but surely, the notes grew richer and thick around the edges when the loose, blue sky turned to the red underside of the overhanging branches, sagging into the shopping plaza. Bits of gold flecked with the crimson for a taste of autumn.

“Commemorative photo?” Viktor pulled out his personal phone.

“If you send me the picture later.” Yuuri wrapped an arm over Viktor’s shoulders before jumping. Viktor’s thumb slipped and the selfie was taken. Yuuri with a glowing smile, his bear plush squished against his cheek. A blur where Viktor’s face should’ve been, knocked off-balance. His bunny plush looked excited, as per usual.

A minute later, when Viktor sat himself on a bench and fanned himself with his plush, Yuuri sent himself the selfie. His thumb hovering over the picture while so many others piqued his interest. Especially the most recent before the selfie, a black and white picture of a familiar supermarket near Viktor’s apartment.

When Yuuri asked Viktor about it, a sigh trailed from Viktor’s lips. The smile on his bunny plush seemed to sag, so did the plush when Viktor’s arms slid down the length of his chest.

“Will you walk with me?”

_Like how we used to._ Yuuri took Viktor by the hand, and they walked onwards. Past bustling shops and the tender wafts of meat from concession stands, onwards still after Yuuri bought an umbrella from a nearby store. Clouds began to settle over St. Petersburg, but the rain wasn’t a threat yet. Not while the first drop came from a bullet. As soon as Yuuri glanced elsewhere, he looked to his left and Viktor was gone. Just the pitter patter of his shoes against the concrete when Viktor asked a booth manager how much it was to shoot.

Five plastic guns laid side-by-side across the booth’s counter, and a target sheet was hoisted by drawstrings after the monetary exchange. Scattered across the counter were ‘bullets’, tiny orange beads that would barely break the skin if it made contact. So with thirty in front of him, Viktor loaded his pistol of choice and shot.

A single hole ripped through the 50-point marker. Even though he technically won, Viktor’s hand trembled when he asked the booth manager if he could still fire. He got his nod, and Viktor shot again. Another hole ripped through the 50-point marker. After the third or so shot, Viktor rested his bunny plush on the booth counter and pulled down its ears. Muffling the sharp _pang_ of the trigger before Viktor loaded another pellet. The bunny plush continued to smile, despite it being well aware of what Viktor did behind its back. Its eyes followed Yuuri when he approached the game booth.

Yuuri touched the back of Viktor’s shoulder just as Viktor shot. He missed his mark and rested the fake pistol against the booth counter. Yuuri rubbed his knuckles against a tense spot on Viktor’s shoulder.

“Take your jacket off,” Yuuri said. “You’re sweating.”

Viktor brushed the side of his neck before his hand slipped down his chest to meet his waist. His fingers tapped the holsters hidden under his suit jacket on the way down. Yuuri heard the _tinks_ of the leather against the firearms.

“My mother used to take me here, often.” Viktor picked up the plastic pistol, took aim, and fired. A third hole appeared on the 50-point mark, dead in the centre of the zero. “She’d let me play the games if I was good boy that day, and she would join me during plays like this.” Viktor waited for his target sheet to change. Afterwards, he took aim and shot.

Resting his umbrella against the booth counter, Yuuri paid gave the manager his money before picking up a pistol. He got twelve pellets, pink. A whistle between his teeth when he took aim. His pellet whizzed through the empty, white space of the target sheet. Yuuri lowered his head in mock-shame, a hic of laughter sprung up from his throat.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that smile.” Viktor lowered his gun when Yuuri glanced up at him. He stood behind Yuuri and moved his arms into place. His breath felt like wisps against Yuuri’s neck, and Viktor aimed towards a ring within the target sheet. Breath hitched at the back of his throat, Yuuri pulled the trigger after he saw a nod from Viktor. A tiny hole appeared right above the three in 35.

“You did well,” Viktor whispered into Yuuri’s ear.

“It feels like you have experience with this.” Yuuri pressed a kiss against Viktor’s cheek. It was quick, felt like a peck compared to some of the kisses they’ve shared in the past, and Viktor asked for permission before he could kiss Yuuri back. Oh, Viktor could’ve stayed like this forever before he pulled away after a short while.

“I had some good teachers throughout the years.”

“I don’t think your mother was one of them,” Yuuri spoke, careful with his words when Viktor returned to his left. The plastic pistol back in Viktor’s hands, more of an edge in how he held it. No longer a toy, but a product of war in his hands when Viktor lined his shot at a faceless officer, a product of his own imagination.

“You’re right, but she told me something that I’ll never forget.” The next thirty seconds struck a quiet horror to the shooting booth.

Pellet after pellet, leaving the barrel of Viktor’s gun, obliterated the target sheet in front of Viktor. The trigger pulled, like a broken record, even after all of its ammunition was rolling on the floor. Yuuri, too afraid to move, nearly had to shout Viktor’s name until the man regained his senses. The plastic pistol fell onto the counter. _“Do what you know is right.”_

Whether that was what his mother actually said or if it was message for himself, Yuuri didn’t press the question. Another, more poignant one, hovered at the edge of his lips.

“The supermarket that was on your phone…?” Yuuri’s voice faded when Viktor asked for more bullets. The back of his neck flushed from the concoction of thoughts and emotions smoking through his circuits.

“I was standing outside, by the window near the snack aisle.” Viktor’s voice was soft, and only Yuuri could hear him. “One moment, I wondered when my mother was going to come out. The next, glass shattered behind me when I turned around. I heard the first drop of rain when I saw my mother, on the floor.” Viktor smacked the booth counter with his knuckles, steadily louder until it matched the thumping rhythm of his heart. ”Bleeding out while a man ran out the door.”

Viktor didn’t speak for a while, concentrated on a faceless projection that he created for himself. Aimed for the throat, lung, and heart of the imaginary-foe before Viktor lowered his gun. Knowing when to hold back instead of pulling the trigger.

“My life was a thousand, broken pieces on a floor,” Viktor finally said, a black and white film of the incident played over his eyes.

At the first drop of rain, Yuuri unfolded the umbrella and held it above their heads. Rainwater splattered off the umbrella and dribbled over Yuuri’s shoulder when he tipped more of the cover towards Viktor’s side. “What happened to the man or should I say, the criminal?”

“The police, despite the budget and endorsements they had, they really couldn’t find time to spare.” Old poison dribbled past Viktor’s lips, his eyes narrowed. Every twitch of his fingers spelled out the dry sarcasm in his voice.

“You turned to the…” Yuuri leaned closer to Viktor and whispered what he meant to say. Viktor nodded after a long while. Relinquishing the plastic pistol, Viktor reached for his bunny plush and snuggled it against his chest.

“I met _her.”_ Viktor drew an outline with his eyes, his best interpretation of Mama without saying her name. “I heard that she was the best in her particular field, and that she liked to check her crops regularly for any bugs or vermin. I asked her if I could find me a... _certain pest,_ and she offered me a spade and basket. She quite literally took me under her wing because she was the only one who listened to me.”

“Did you find the pest?” The rain was loud enough where murder could’ve happened behind them, and they wouldn’t have heard it.

_“Instead of pesticide, I kept it in a container and watched it.”_ There was a drop in Viktor’s voice, a glossy teal over his eyes when he spoke. Because Viktor was beating around the bush, Yuuri didn’t know what Viktor truly did to the criminal. All he could do was imagine, but Yuuri’s imagination turned up blank. But this feeling, this coil snaking up is arm and around his throat, the sudden twitch in Yuuri’s fingers when he squeezed his bear plush tightly. If he wasn’t careful, he would find himself in the same ‘container’ that Viktor spoke of.

What happened next was not by Yuuri’s doing, or perhaps it was Fate lending her finger on the situation. A raindrop fell and slipped through Viktor’s hair before it touched his skin. Viktor blinked a few times, a familiar sheen over his eyes. Broke from his trance, Viktor almost forgot where he was until his elbow brushed against Yuuri’s arm, and reality bandaged the mental-break that had seized Viktor earlier.

“Was I...Did I say something earlier?” Genuine honesty on Viktor’s part, but Yuuri wasn’t so sure. If this was an act, Viktor memorized his script and then some when he retraced the conversation he had with Yuuri before...before there was a fuzzy moment in his train of thought. Viktor asked his bunny plush if he had said anything. Granted, the plush didn’t move, but Viktor stared at it for quite some time until…

“You wanted to go back to the car,” Yuuri said. He adjusted his umbrella accordingly just as Viktor nodded. He kept whispering under his breath if he _did_ said that, but Yuuri reassured him and told Viktor that the shooting game had caught him off guard earlier.

Viktor seemed to believe him, like he often did. He walked close to Yuuri, despite the latter walking farther away. Not too far to create a rift between them, but Yuuri kept a safe distance. Well aware that Viktor had done his own lies to keep his mafia ties a secret, Yuuri bounded his thoughts with a lock-and-key.

“Enough about me.” The words rolled off from Viktor’s tongue with ease when the parking lot went under his feet. “What about you? What’s your story?”

Yuuri’s teeth grazed over his bottom lip. “My story is like your story, but one chapter behind.”

Viktor raised an eyebrow, nudging Yuuri with his elbow. “I’m sorry. I didn’t major in literature. Can you enlighten me?”

With the umbrella above them, Yuuri climbed onto his tippy toes. His umbrella angled just a bit. Not enough for a soak, but the rainwater sloshed off the umbrella and collided into a puddle behind them.

In any genre, what could’ve happened was a kiss. A moment of sweet relish to quiet a thumping heart, but this wasn’t a fairytale. Nor was Viktor a knight or Yuuri a mere damsel in the conventional constitutes of a fairytale. His voice, a ghost of a whisper, along the crook of Viktor’s ear.

_“I need to find a hacker.”_

So as Fate would have it, the switchblade in Viktor’s suit slipped and rested against his tinkering chest. “Harassment?”

_“Identity theft.”_

No longer muted after those words, the rain enveloped their silence when they got to the car. Yuuri got in first. He sat his bear plush next to him and strapped it behind a seat belt. Viktor would’ve smiled, but his bangs acted like his own pair of shades when he got into the driver’s seat. Yuuri’s wet umbrella leaned against the passenger’s seat. Viktor’s bunny plush sat on his lap.

Viktor’s fingers drummed against the steering wheel, better that than choke the faceless spectre peering at him through the window shield. Of Yuuri’s hacker; oh, Viktor’s twitched for a _real_ gun. However, Viktor reached for his keys and the _Lexus_ purred during the downpour.

“It troubles me that someone would pretend to be someone that they’re not,” Yuuri sighed. His voice eased Viktor’s mind for a moment when he drove out from the parking lot and was back on the road. Viktor didn’t say it, perhaps of how odd it sounded or of how somber the car ride became. But if Yuuri was looking for a hacker, in St. Petersburg of all places, wouldn’t his business be better served with the _Clubs_ or _Diamonds?_ The _Hearts,_ led by Mama, were a prominent group in some way with the community, but to be heard or even referenced across international waters was foreign to Viktor.

Under Papa’s ruling, and even after Mama became the _Pakhan,_ no one was to know that the _Hearts_ existed. No one; except the members, the rivaling families in St. Petersburg, and the overall community. Other than an occasional headline or a snippet on the Sunday news, the _Hearts_ were relatively under the radar. And yet, Yuuri found them and reached out to Mama.

And yet, the cinnamon eyes that shone smiles back at Viktor through a reflection in the rear-view mirror, those eyes felt like garland over Viktor’s threshold before he was lowered down to a stiller town. In that thought, Yuuri was there. Not with a bouquet for the early grave, but a gun to ensure that Viktor was dead. In the open casket, eyes open for his last shade of blue; the final color was the smoke trailing from Yuuri’s gun.

 

 

A quarter ‘til nine said the navy watch, clasped to Viktor’s wrist when he stifled a yawn. His eyelashes fluttered, fanning sleep away when the Sandman passed by and blew sediment into his face. Viktor exhaled, his bangs hovered in the air for a moment before falling softly against his face. Combine his fatigue with the dim lighting of the restaurant, and Viktor was bound to fall asleep at his post. Perhaps, he could close his eyes and lean against the door behind him. Feel the golden hinge of the handle and press on it softly in his sleep.

The final say came from Guildenstern, Mama’s right-hand marksman. Despite the purple hues beneath her eyes, her stature never wavered. Her posture, the hilt to a blade, prompted Viktor to stand straight. Of the duo, he was the blade with the sharpened tip, and Guildenstern reminded him of how pivotal his position was. For a sharp blade was a smart blade, or at least that was how the saying went when Guildenstern showed him how to fight. How to hold a switchblade and how to grapple a limb or neck to the tip of the blade.

Thirty-four with golden embroidery stitched over her eyepatch, Guildenstern was the token-definition of everything Viktor strove to be. His own eyepatch, just his fringe over his left eye, kept Viktor alert. Bold, even. With one sense impaired, the others could notice a pin drop faster than the eye he had left. A little something he learned from Guildenstern, and his mentor had so much more to teach him.

How shoes become critical in low-lighting. Not just for a swift retreat, but to feel vibrations. At least, a little before a fist or face swung out from the darkness. How a suit jacket was the cornerstone between life and death. Were the shoulders comfortable? Could one strike or swing without resistance, or fall death to fashion design?

Guildenstern didn’t comment on it, but her face softened when saw a stitched quote inside the silk of Viktor’s suit jacket. Viktor had tugged his suit, adjusting a black box that had tilted and wedged his switchblade into a tough corner. His knuckles brushed against his personal phone, and the screen illuminated over cursive words.

_Lovers Never Die_

“My mother often said that,” Viktor said, tucking the switchblade up his sleeve. “Clung true to those words ‘til it was her time.”

A half-smile, a rarity that Viktor could only count on one hand, appeared just over Guildenstern’s lips. Viktor wouldn’t have noticed it if he didn’t pay attention to the reflection on his switchblade.

“I see where you get it from.” Guildenstern loosened her posture for the first time in hours.

Three had went by, with just her and Viktor as each other’s company. Their backs against the doors to the private room, where Yuuri and Mama shared dinner and discussed about ‘trust bonds’.

Even Guildenstern was as weary as Mama when the doors closed just a few hours prior, and her gaze always wandered to Mama’s face when there was a slip in the opening. A check of reassurance to unwind the tension sewn to her bones whenever a server came bearing with racks of meat, or a nifty bottle of wine so that Mama could poorly imitate a sommelier. However, she was improving and had some stories to tell with every sip of white or red.

“The deal should be ending soon.” Viktor hoped to break the silence, aware that Guildenstern had finally grown passive in her duty as a bodyguard for the evening. Whatever slouch she had before stiffened, and Guildenstern narrowed her eyes when a server emerged from the darkness. Every server was seen the same way, and Viktor tried to smile to lighten the mood. However, he had never seen this server before.

She had not been serving the private room, some others were. Viktor still smiled, but his fingers twitched when his switchblade ran down the length of his forearm. Just a cuff away from slipping into his hand, Viktor’s eyes met Guildenstern's briefly.

The server stood before them. An innocent smile, but not innocent enough because she clasped her hands in front of her. Perhaps, to keep her fingers from twitching.

Dessert became the topic, and Guildenstern followed with her own case study of what was acceptable after a three-hour-long meal. One couldn’t possibly have room after all the wine and delicacies that passed through the private doors. Arms crossed and with a smoky eye, Guildenstern could’ve tangoed with the server through every thrust and pull of the conversation. Until Viktor chimed in and said that dessert was fine.

“Can you add a fruit tart?” The memory of Yuuri scarfing one down was fresh on Viktor’s mind. Albeit, the request was selfish on his part when he felt Guildenstern’s breath. Despite her being a two feet away from him.

“I’ll make that two,” said the server. Her ponytail swung over her shoulder when she turned on her heels. The clicks of those shoes ticked the end for Viktor when Guildenstern cracked her knuckles. Subtly at first, but every crack sounded like a substitute for Viktor’s neck for what he had done.

When Viktor gulped, his switchblade slid out from his cuffs and across his palm. The blade nestled over the lines on his hand, like a lock for a key. ”I think it’s okay if--”

Viktor cut his train of thought when Guildenstern slipped her fingers under her eyepatch to ease her hidden eye. She closed her exposed eye, but Viktor didn’t move. Any and every twitch from his body, Guildenstern would sense it within a heartbeat.

_“What did I do to forget?”_ Guildenstern mumbled under her breath.

The mere whisper of her voice knocked Viktor off-balance. Viktor squeezed. His switchblade burrowed into his hand. Breathing steadily, Viktor slipped the blade up his sleeve. Discreetly as he could when Guildenstern opened her exposed eye. Viktor balled his hand into a fist, his heartbeats ticking by his ear when Guildenstern spoke again.

_“Mama loves fruit tarts.”_ Guildenstern patted her shoulder thrice before typing the reminder onto her phone. Viktor broke into a grin, a bit of a laugh creeping up from his throat to lighten the mood.

All the while, Viktor curved his fist upward. Just a bit, enough for his blood to pool against his palm than seep through his fingers. Evidence marking a trail of where he stood. Fortunately, a message through his earpiece drew Viktor's attention away from his wound. It was from Mama, and Guildenstern heard the same for she stood like a soldier, as if Mama was standing in front of her. Stooped over a chair and with a tease riding up her cheeks, her classic bun spilling down her neck and she was a mother. Like she had always been.

The discussion was a success, slurred by Mama’s incoherent words and jokes when she sang the highlights and the thickest accent Guildenstern and Viktor had ever heard. Viktor glanced up at Guildenstern, and his silent mentor nodded along with what Mama said. Whether she understood or not because Mama’s chirpy laughter issued harsh, reception-feedback through the earpieces. Guildenstern shushed softly until Mama settled down. Perhaps, with Yuuri’s help because Viktor perked up when bits of Japanese slipped into the earpiece.

“Did you take notes?” Guildenstern turned her back on the world and finally faced the doors that stood between her and Mama.

Mama hiccupped. _“I have a stack and a few signatures that need verification. I saved it for you.”_

Breathless, Guildenstern turned off her earpiece. “She knows me too well.”

Viktor didn’t need to see a smile because there was a skip to Guildenstern’s movements when she grasped one of the doors handles. A slight pause, a moment for her face to slip into a neutral expression, before she opened the private door.

A chandelier, stunning with thousands of colored glass strung high over the ceiling, reflected a bouquet of jewels across the stainless dishes sitting before Yuuri and Mama. A few glasses of wine shared between them. Yuuri, with his glass untouched for the most part, and Mama, uncorking a bottle with her steak knife. She lowered the blade when Guildenstern and Viktor took their seats at the table, and Mama poured them wine.

“You two will have to stop by this weekend so I can cook a proper meal.” Mama excused herself when she hiccupped. Guildenstern brought her wine glass to her lips and savored the flavors of 1973 while Viktor helped himself to the hot, fresh bread that Mama saved for him and Guildenstern. Mostly for Viktor, because Guildenstern pushed the willow basket of bread closer to Viktor while she clinked her glass against Mama’s.

Mama curved her arm around Guildenstern’s, and they saw each other’s reflection in the white wine. Guildenstern nursed from Mama’s glass, and Mama did the same with Guildenstern’s. Every time Guildenstern looked up from her drink, she caught Mama’s eye and flush from the alcohol curled over the bridge of her nose before she and Mama pulled apart. A sigh curled out from Mama’s lips and it drifted over her and Guildenstern like the smoke from a cigar.

On the other side of the table, sitting to Yuuri’s left and feeling the man’s warmth illustrated a fleeting memory for Viktor when he brought his wine glass to his lips. Though this warmth wasn’t as intimate as Mama and Guildenstern’s, this touch eased Viktor. When Yuuri looked elsewhere, laughing at an obscure joke that Mama knew, Viktor slid a dining napkin off from the table and wrapped it around his right hand. Tied a loose knot so that the bleeding could halt and for his wound to heal. Even more so, Viktor felt that this where the healing began. With laughter that sounded so genuine, and with a light-hearted buzz that swirled and danced in the atmosphere.

_‘Wonderful’_ was the word Viktor was looking for. The orange and yellow hues, swirling down from the chandelier like autumn leaves, massaged the aches over Viktor’s shoulders and neck. The wine and the bread kept his stomach warm, a resilient fire for his core. Everything felt at peace, nothing had a touch of worry.

Mama slurred her words together, almost indecipherable to native ears. Guildenstern managed a grin every now and then, able to drop her guard for just this once. Yuuri rested his head on the crook of Viktor’s shoulder, coral pink dusting over his skin. Viktor inched his arm around Yuuri, one of his fingers looped around a lock of Yuuri’s hair.

It felt too good to be true. It felt like a fairytale, and the monsters were gone. Chapel bells and flowers resonating in the distance, somewhere over a meadow where Viktor and the people he knew simply frolicked through the greenery in flowing costumes. Carnations in their hair under the kissing sun.

However, as fleeting as a fairytale could be, the monsters were never truly gone. On the edge of the pages, in the shadows behind each and every word, there lurked a wolf. Prowling, low across the landscape, the creature tore across the passages in a single leap and bound. Much like Yuuri’s response when Mama checked the time on her phone, commenting that she needed to leave soon.

_“You always feel a little guilty when you’re not tucking Alexa to bed.”_ Yuuri yawned and nuzzled closer against Viktor’s neck. Viktor steadied his breaths, his eyes wandered to Mama.

Mama was busy checking notifications on her phone’s calendar, but there was a breath of hesitation when she digested Yuuri’s words. Her eyes narrowed, and the drunken flush over her skin mellowed. Not enough where her actual drunkenness was considerably less, but there was a shift in her behavior. There was a shift in Mama’s tone as she rocked her wine glass between her fingers.

“Indeed.” There was a steak knife over Mama’s dining napkin. Simply draped over her lap and the blade was balanced over her knee. Not for long, because Mama rested the steak knife over her finished plate when the private doors opened with a click. A curious raise of the eyebrow painted Mama’s face when Yuuri lifted his head from Viktor’s shoulders. Suddenly, the close proximity between them spanned from sea to shining sea. Yuuri, a blank canvas where his joy used to be. Viktor, wondering what he had done to drive Yuuri away. The scene lingered in Mama’s mind when she flicked her gaze to the private doors.

A server, the same woman who had asked about dessert, wheeled in a silver trolley with a custard cake, fruit tarts, and a crème brûlée. Every pastry sat on a pristine throne, with its reflection hovering over the white glass. If sweets had a price, these sweets were crusted with botanic bling. From delicate flower petals, roosted along the sides or the middle, and sprinkled with the jewels of this season’s berry harvest.

“Excuse me.” Intoxicated as she was, Mama had a good memory or two when she gestured at the dessert trolley. _“We,”_ Mama pointed at Yuuri with her eyes, “didn’t order any dessert.”

“It was my suggestion,” Viktor chirped, feeling all eyes on him despite most of everyone not looking at him. The only person who cared to was Guildenstern, a quiet nudge of support on her part because she didn’t stop Viktor when he ordered the dessert earlier.

“If I would have known, I would’ve saved room.” Mama patted her belly with a sigh. She waved a disapproving finger at Viktor, but it was hard to take the gesture seriously because of the grin over her lips. Mama unbuttoned her waistcoat, letting it slide and fall of her shoulders. However, Guildenstern caught it and draped the article over the back of Mama’s seat.

The server came around, balancing the dessert plates on her arm. Little spoons cradled in her right hand when she set the plates down. A round, amber-glazed custard cake sat in front of Viktor with a silver spoon to spare. Crisped, crème brûlée smoked in front of Guildenstern. In front of Mama and Yuuri were the fruit tarts, golden with a honey brush before baking. The thousands colors from the chandelier overhead painted a rainbow of flavor over the desserts, watering the tongue before the first fork was lifted from its plate.

The server bowed her head, the wisps of her bangs nearly ticking the end of her nose before she lifted herself and reached for the silver trolley. Just as she turned her head, Mama’s voice crumbled through the sweet atmosphere like a hot fork.

“Guildenstern, what are the top headlines for tomorrow.” Mama ran her fork down the edge of her fruit tart. Oozing berries within the slice, but she didn’t pick up a bite. Instead, she shifted her fork around until she could see the middle of the pastry.

“Missile launches from our neighbor, flu outbreak, and the stocks will be…” A thought hovered over Guildenstern’s tongue before she broke the surface of her dessert with her fork. The fluffy, creamy texture of the crème brûlée oozed freely over her plate, and the crystal glaze on top shattered with every prod of the fork. “Slight variances for _some_ businesses, but others will remain as they have been.”

Guildenstern brushed her overhanging bangs to the side, looping the longer fringes behind her ear. The prongs of her fork sunk to the bottom of the crème brûlée. The clink of the dish beneath it, if it wasn’t evident before.

“Do you enjoy custard cake, Viktor?” Mama pressed one of her heels against the leg of her seat.

“I do, Ma’am.” Viktor stared at his dessert, seemingly innocent on the outside. He picked up his fork, unsure where to cut at first. But the delicious, brown sugar crusted over the top of his custard cake looked so...it wasn’t as neat as the graham crumbs smoothed along the side.

If Viktor was a flashlight, his eyes shone brightly when he met Mama’s gaze. She smiled at him, a reassuring click of her heel against a leg of her chair to ease Viktor’s mind. His eyes flickered from Mama’s to the server’s.

The server had her hands clasped in front of her, erratic twitches sprung down from her knuckles and to the tip of her fingers. When Mama spoke, she spoke as if she was speaking to her son, _her Alexa,_ if he had done something wrong.

“It’s funny that Mr. Katsuki and I have been the only ones dining in this room, served by other servers in the past three-hours, and here you stand before us, before me, with these sweets.” Mama pushed her plate back. “You would’ve had me with two, but four?” Mama tilted her head. “Who would’ve known that two agents, two with a quick-draw, would’ve joined me for dessert?”

Mama held up her right hand, and she slowly lowered her fingers until her ring finger was all that was left, singling out that she was the only who knew about this arrangement. Winking over her finger was an old wedding ring, a symbol that had never been removed since a fateful encounter before an altar, nearly twenty years ago. An eternity too soon, Mama had to dig a grave with her bare hands. An eternity too soon, the server was digging her own. Nowhere to turn, nowhere to hide. Except the trolley next to her, but what could she do with that when she turned and met Mama’s eyes.

“You’re a _Club,_ am I right? One of Archie’s chemists?” A single strand of hair slipped and slid across Mama’s face. Stopping a quarter away from her eye when not a sound left the server’s lips.

The server’s mouth was open, a vein or detail popped over her neck, but she said nothing. Her words buried somewhere deep inside, unable to surface because of a typical _Club’s_ pride.

“I know if Archie was here, he would be more disappointed that _we’re,”_ Mama gestured to herself, to Guildenstern and Viktor, and to Yuuri, “not dead. However, if our roads do happen to cross someday in the future, I want to offer some advice.” Mama pulled her fruit tart closer. “The sugar laced on top. It’s crushed cyanide pills, isn’t it?”

Mama dabbed her dining towel with her tongue before patting it over the berries on her fruit tart. Phone in hand, Mama shone her flashlight and examined the crushed powder. Tsking under her breath, noting how clunky the crushed cyanide pills looked. They weren’t crushed well enough, almost as if the server had stuffed the pills into a bag and stomped over it a few times in a hurry before coming into the private room.

“For any assassination, preparation is key. I think if you had this prepared before coming here, we wouldn’t be any wiser.” With that and a cheerful smile, Mama passed the spotlight to Guildenstern.

As if she was speaking to Mama’s son, Guildenstern bit her tongue and went through her bit with a story. Choking on her words every now and then, having to relinquish her walls. Mama told Guildenstern that she should just be herself, that the best advice came from being true to one’s values. Immediately, Guildenstern dropped her “cutesy act”. The sudden change seeped the colors out from the private room. A drop of gray swirled over the scene, clouding it to Guildenstern’s favors when her fingers folded over themselves. Her chin rested on top of them when she spoke.

“You could’ve fooled us all.” If there was more to add to that statement, Guildenstern didn’t say it because her own pride almost spilled. Much like the server’s, but the server wore her pride as a badge over her chest. “Cyanide to take out the Queen, and the rest of us have are dealing with a knock-out drug. Or at least, something that would slow us down. That if we went for help, we wouldn’t be able to move and you would take care of us in this room.”

It was a frown to think about it, but a shudder to speak of it. More-so now, with Guildenstern’s hand hovering over her gun when the server trembled from head to toe.

“Kid,” Guildenstern pulled the safety off of her firearm, “this isn’t something to cry about.” A bullet slipped from the cuff of her sleeve and slid into the revolver before Guildenstern spun it under her suit jacket. A click holding her thoughts on the edge when the server’s steele eyes emerged from the shadow of her own bangs.

  _“It doesn’t matter because I failed.”_ The server’s hands, uncontained by the sporadic twitches she allowed herself. If a wolf had dressed itself in sheep’s clothing, the server was shedding off her wool and claws took place where shy hooves once were.

“It’s not a failure when you learn from the experience.” Mama’s voice never rose above the comfortable-level she was at. Not a hint of disappointment left her lips, and her voice wavered for just once so that the server would turn and actually listen to her. “The greatest poison you’ve given us today are these beautiful sweets that we can’t eat. It’s often the sweetest things that harm us when we least expect it.” Mama cracked a smile and sliced a hefty portion of her fruit tart, balancing the sweet bite over her fork.

The server took half a step forward. Guildenstern’s finger hovered over her trigger. The barrel of her gun followed the server with every step of the way. Her aim was almost too easy when the server’s front barely grazed the dining table. But even so, Guildenstern didn’t shoot. Call it faith because anyone could shoot, but it took a hands-on-approach to solve a problem than destroy it.

The server lowered her head. Not a twitch nor stir from her body spoke of an alternative motive when tears dripped down her cheeks and fell quietly onto the dining cloth. The weights on her shoulders slid off when Mama rose from her seat wrapped her arms around the server’s shoulders. Quietly shushing into her ear, telling the server that she was proud. Proud that the server could do this on her own, proud that the server had given the advice a chance, and proud that the server could walk away with this experience on her belt.

For an outsider, it was odd to watch. It was strange to see a target and her killer embrace in such a tender moment. Yuuri’s initial shock melted into something softer when he felt Viktor’s hand against his own. Viktor had leaned in close, comforting Yuuri’s nerves with a single brush of skin. Viktor’s warmth eased Yuuri’s mind as he quietly absorbed the sight before his eyes.

There were different ways to kill, besides poison or a gun.

The server thanked Mama, sobbing onto her shoulder that no one had ever reached out to her like this. When they pulled apart, the server had only one request: _a fight._ Guildenstern gladly took up the offer, wrestling out from her suit jacket. A switchblade poised in her hands, steadied between her fingers. Her gun rested with Mama when Guildenstern walked around the dining table and into the fighting arena.

A blade slipped down the server’s sleeve, a firm grasp over the hilt when she circled Guildenstern. Guildenstern did the same for her. The click of heels, the clacks of dress shoes, the velvet carpet between them. Not a breath of hesitation, the server lunged first. She swung, gutting the tip of Guildenstern's tie. She sidestepped around the server and twirled the server with her. Arms bolted under Guildenstern’s grasp, the server held her breath when a blade laid poised against her neck. Nearly biting into her skin, but Guildenstern didn’t allow it so.

The server spun her blade in her hands. Not to stab into Guildenstern’s knee or to gut her open. Instead, she threw her head back and smacked Guildenstern between her eyes. Slipping out from Guildenstern’s grasp, the server threw her blade like a dart. Not at Mama, but aimed for Yuuri’s heart.

The knife, a twirling dart that spun from its hilt to the tip of the blade, crossed the precious feet between the server and her target. Yuuri braced himself, pulling his forearm across his chest to take the blow. At the same time, he was pulled to the side. Viktor embraced Yuuri in his arms and tore into the space between him and the knife. The blade sunk into the crook of his shoulder blade. Thrusting its roots into Viktor’s body until it touched bare bone.

Time resumed normally when Viktor gasped. The bloody dining napkin that had covered Viktor’s wound slipped from his right hand. Viktor rubbed his red thumb across Yuuri’s cheek, leaving his mark. Mouth agape, Yuuri looked down at Viktor’s slumped figure. The knife, half buried into Viktor’s body, flushed the surrounding area with red. Yuuri’s fingers inched towards Viktor’s face, rubbing his warmth against Viktor’s skin to keep him awake. A wound like this wasn’t enough to kill, but Viktor felt so cold under Yuuri’s touch. Yuuri’s touch skimmed the hilt of the offending knife before he slowly pulled it out. He coaxed and whispered into Viktor’s ear, telling him to relax. To make this easier, but it didn’t stop the fact that Viktor grinded his teeth while Yuuri pulled. Winces and sharp intakes rattling his body until Yuuri offered his shoulder for Viktor to bite.

_“Won’t it hurt?”_ The whisper of Japanese perked Yuuri’s ears when Viktor panted over his shoulder. His chin sank down the edge of Yuuri’s suit vest until his teeth skimmed the fabric.

_“Not as much as seeing you like this.”_ Yuuri rubbed his fingers around Viktor’s shoulder blade. Relaxing the muscles before his other hand pulled at the knife’s hilt. Viktor’s teeth latched onto Yuuri’s shoulder. Yuuri winced, but he hid it with every tug of the knife. Viktor suppressed his hisses by biting harder, nuzzling his body closer to Yuuri and bridging every tiny gap in between them.

To an outsider, it appeared that Viktor was keeping still while Yuuri helped pull a knife out of him. But to them, it was this shared pain that brought them closer. Mama blinked when Viktor was free from the knife and crumbled against Yuuri’s tender arms. The bloodied knife was poised in Yuuri’s grasp, a dark haze ghosting over his eyes when he twirled the weapon for a kill. To avenge Viktor while the man hissed between his teeth, pressing his bloodied palm against his wound.

Guildenstern was a little quicker on the avengement than Yuuri. Guildenstern knocking the server off her feet and pinned her face and torso against the dining table. Hands against her back, the server bared her teeth, glare as sharp as her aim when she kicked. A swift buckle overcame the server when Mama’s fruit tart approached her face. Mama placed her fork near the server’s mouth, a hefty portion of poison waiting to be swallowed.

“It’s best to stick with the poisons when hand-to-hand combat isn’t your best tool for right now,” Mama said, patting the server’s shoulder thrice. “Transfer your aim to a gun, and you’ll be an excellent marksman.” With that, Mama asked Guildenstern if she could take care of the server, and Guildenstern responded back with pleasure before clasping handcuffs over the server’s wrists and holding her steady.

In the meantime, Mama approached Viktor. She gently pulled him away from Yuuri so that Viktor could support himself on his own. Mama nudged his bloody fingers apart, and she inspected the wound. As deep as it was, as bloody as it was, Viktor was going to be okay. He was going to be just fine. That was what Mama told herself, despite every fiber in being screaming that she should take care of the server, personally. However, Mama had shed that persona long ago when she took with her first steps as _Pakhan_ just a year ago.

“There’s a hospital that will treat Viktor.” Mama lifted her waistcoat and pulled a card from her inner pocket. Held between her fingers, she pointed it to Yuuri and he accepted it with steady hands. “Please, take him there.”

One moment, it appeared that Mama could do no wrong and that her voice was as just as the ideologies she carried on her shoulders. However, at that moment, at that transaction when Yuuri slid his gaze up to meet Mama’s, he saw that she was like anyone else. A person, battling their own demons and mistakes. The flush over her cheeks wasn’t from the wine, but the wavering control she had over her impulses. In which, she passed her role as a caretaker to Yuuri.

It wasn’t a normal touch. Say, like a pat on the shoulder or a caress of the cheek. Mama slipped a card into the open pocket of Yuuri’s suit jacket when she shuffled through a deck tucked in her waistcoat.

The _Joker_ of Spades.

 

* * *

 

_“Do you know why a Joker shows up so rarely?”_

In the stillness of that night, Yuuri almost didn’t hear the question. His lips, nursing the edge of his drink when he tipped his head back, and Yuuri caught the chiseled gaze of his _Otōsan,_ the leader of the family. Balanced on his squeaky stool, Yuuri placed his glass down as if it was a piece of a chessboard. _Otōsan_ shuffled through his pawns and filled Yuuri a hefty portion. A card, the _Joker’s_ calling, slid across bar counter, accompanied with the drink.

Yuuri caught his glass, his eyes surveyed down the grimy poker card before he nursed his drink. In the dim lighting of the bar counter, when Yuuri was but a month shy from his twenty-fourth birthday, he could almost recite the words that _Otōsan_ mumbled as he wiped a glass clean with a soiled rag.

_“The Joker owns many faces.”_ The words spilled out like pillaring smoke, wafting a wheeze up Yuuri’s throat. He coughed, spitting up his drink back into its glass. The alcohol burned every corner of his mouth at the very end of where his throat began.

Even so, Yuuri regained his composure and prompted _Otōsan_ to speak. The rudeness came with an apology when Yuuri bowed his head, so low that his forehead touched the counter, and he remained that way until _Otōsan_ knocked the spot near Yuuri’s head. Yuuri lifted his gaze, his chin hovering over his drink.

_“He can take on as many shapes to his will.” Otōsan_ fished for a card in his poker deck. His knuckles blazed with old scars and bruises from his time as a _Jack_ for his _King,_ and that throne was as cold and as empty as the bar. The only soul listening to these words was Yuuri, and he adjusted his glasses when a black-and-white photograph was laid on top of the _Joker_ card. _“Even that of a lover.”_

Unlike the crooked teeth of a manmade _Joker,_ Yuuri met a beautiful smile. Heart-shaped, bright, and warm along the edges. Perhaps, it was morning when the photo was taken, but it was hard to tell by the grainy quality. The abundance of shadows just under the eyes, the curve of the nose, and the supple lips that had once kissed Yuuri thrice before kissing him a fourth under a spreading tree...It had been two years too long since Yuuri last saw such a familiar face.

_Otōsan_ watched as Yuuri caressed the photograph with the back of his thumb. The young _Joker’s_ eyes were ablazed with so many questions of how, what, and why. These questions, Yuuri had to answer on his own, were the perfect fuel to ignite Yuuri’s heart. For when he bowed his head and thanked _Otōsan_ for the drinks, there was no turning back. A ticket to St. Petersburg was purchased later the next morning and not two weeks after, Yuuri lifted his wings and glided back to the perch of where he had once called _Home._

If he could see the familiar face for just once more, Yuuri could set his heart free. But when his feet touched the perch, the gates around him closed. He hopped, back and forth, over a rocking place and covered his face with the front of his wings. Peering through the golden bars, mouth fallen at the sight, Viktor met his bird, _his love,_ again.

* * *

 

 

The memory of that night, of Yuuri’s first sight of Viktor, hummed in the back of Yuuri’s mind when he drummed his fingers against the steering wheel of the _Lexus._ When he glanced through his peripheral and caught sight of Viktor, head tipping because of every bump of the road, it felt as if nothing else mattered but now.

The calm of Viktor’s face, how he looked so peaceful when his head pressed against the side-window. How the low drawls of sleep parted his lips, and Yuuri could’ve stole a kiss. How Viktor’s bangs acted as sleep-masks when the car passed under the overhanging streetlights along a bridge in St. Petersburg. The amber, orange glow brushed through Viktor’s hair like kisses, tucking him into his safe haven.

When Yuuri stopped in front of a stoplight, no one else around him besides Viktor, he lowered his hand from the steering wheel and reached over. Mere inches away from stroking Viktor’s hair. So close, yet so far when Yuuri pulled away and rested his fingers along the steering wheel instead. A twitch overcame his fingers when light shone across the dashboard, illuminating the _Joker_ of Spades that laid across the surface. A gift from Mama, a glossy ID tied to Yuuri’s name, and he couldn’t throw it away.

Yuuri had tried so, earlier.

He had rolled down the window, the card held between his index and middle finger. But when Yuuri caught a stir from Viktor, a snore on his part, Yuuri couldn’t let the card go. He couldn’t flick it away, so it remained on the dashboard. Slipping every and which way when Yuuri took his sharp turns, and the haunting grin of the card’s denomination bled into his imagination. So much so that a silhouette from the corners of his mind slipped its slender legs across the leather of the backseat.

First came the jingling bells as hooked shoes rested on the carpet of _Lexus._ Second came nimble hands, fingers as delicate and long as a spider’s, rested on the crook of Viktor’s seat. Nearly grazing his neck and curling around a sliver of Viktor’s locks, but the figure didn’t do so. Whether by Yuuri’s own command of his imagination, or the spectre lurking behind Viktor stopped in the middle of his act because Yuuri kept a steady eye on him through the rear-view mirror. Third came the torso, an hourglass shape with stocky shoulders and a trimmed waist. Thin flakes and the upward curves of the _Joker’s_ clothes, void of the usual rainbow that the domination would typically carry. The last to emerge from the silhouette was a face, pale as the back of Yuuri’s neck when he suppressed an urge to scream.

The _Joker,_ his curved shoes and extended chin, accented those crazed sockets where eyes were meant to be. Or perhaps, they were there. Pupils blotched into a silvery gray when he stared at Yuuri for what felt like an eternity, and Yuuri couldn’t look away. But in reality, Yuuri’s eyes flickered back to the road ahead when the stop light turned green.

_“Stab the heart.”_ A ghostly whisper, Yuuri’s own voice but transcribed into a melodic tune, crept from the _Joker’s_ lips.

A trail of smoke snaked through the car and coiled around Viktor’s lips and throat, like a noose. With a single command, it could suffocate Viktor. Yuuri’s imagination didn’t allow it, but he became steadily conscious of his own actions. How one of his hands had slipped from the steering wheel, inching towards the suit jacket draped over Viktor’s body. Of a peculiar switchblade that poked out from an inner pocket, how the hilt nearly grazed Yuuri’s touch.

_“Set one’s inhibitions free from--”_

_“Shut up,”_ Yuuri snarled under his breath.

Under that command, the _Joker_ disappeared. Though the smoke left behind was part of Yuuri’s imagination, it burned his throat and eyes. Pressing the emergency lights, Yuuri drove off the main road and parked on the shoulder of St. Petersburg’s bridge. Knuckles white, shadows of his bones against the steering wheel, when Yuuri gasped for breath.

He tore out of his seat belt and left the door open when he stumbled out from the car. Holding onto the skin of the _Lexus_ with the best of his grip as he made it to the other side of the car. Back pressed against Viktor’s side of the _Lexus_ , shoes leaning against the edge of St. Petersburg’s bridge when Yuuri caught his first taste of the breeze.

Behind him, Yuuri heard the squeaks of a window being pulled down. A fragile hand reached out and held onto his arm.

“Babe, are you okay?” Soft-spoken as he was, Viktor mustered his strength forward when he leaned his face out the window and rested it against Yuuri’s sleeve. With what sanity he had left, hitched to the back of each and every breath, Yuuri closed a door over his imagination.

With the key chucked over the bridge and sinking in the depths below, Yuuri settled back and recharged under Viktor’s warmth. Breathing steadily, Viktor lifted his head and peppered a kiss on Yuuri’s cheek. One kiss turned to many as Viktor slowly made his way up to Yuuri’s forehead to keep the demons at bay, to keep his angel aglow to the best of his abilities.

Even so, the effort had a price. In exchange, a fiery bite sunk into the crook of Viktor’s shoulder blade, and he couldn’t hide his wince with a smile when Yuuri met his gaze. A brief exchange, wordless at best, before Yuuri sowed his own kiss at Viktor’s lips. Hunger, a crave for touch, deafened Yuuri’s rationale for a moment before he satisfied his taste. Viktor slipped out from the kiss, lips parted in shock before he asked Yuuri to kiss him again. To know that the touch was real and as visceral as the short moment had made it feel so. When Viktor climbed up the side of _Lexus’_ door to meet Yuuri in the middle, he hissed between his teeth and lowered himself slowly. His arms buckled under his weight.

“Your shoulder bothering you?” The words rolled off of Yuuri’s tongue with ease, the little hint of a Russian accent burning the back of Viktor’s ears.

Viktor tugged at his collar, trying to inspect his knife-wound. Yuuri asked if he could help Viktor out of his shirt, for medical purposes. He added that with a whisper when Viktor’s fingers froze at the mid of his collar. Yuuri took the initiative, his fingers fumbling over the first few buttons. He glanced up, barely a skip from missing Viktor’s gaze.

“Tell me when to stop.”

_“I hope you never stop.”_

Viktor turned his head away, a trail of pink stopping just below his chin. Yuuri continued to unbutton the dress shirt until he reached the bottom, and he carefully tugged the fabric off from Viktor’s body. A passing car shone its lights through the _Lexus,_ illuminating the scars that the world so rarely saw from Viktor. Nevertheless, as quick as Yuuri’s curiosity was to touch the bits of history engraved over the flesh, as quick as the darkness came to cloak Viktor’s secrets. When the dress shirt fell, crumbled into a heap at the crook of the passenger seat, Yuuri’s fingers brushed over the makeshift bandage over Viktor’s wound.

Bits of a dining cloth, sliced into reasonable rags, before they were bundled and pressed against Viktor’s wound. Acting as an agent to help the blood clot around the area, and the bandage was held secure by Viktor’s navy tie. Having never seen Viktor bleed, Yuuri’s curiosity got the best of him during this private moment. His thumb rubbed over the angry wound when he lifted the bandage, and Viktor whistled between his teeth. Better than a hiss, but the whistle conveyed just as much pain.

“You need something warm,” Yuuri murmured under his breath. He opened the nearest compartments on the dashboard; his hands skimmed the insides for what he needed. Yuuri kept his other hand near Viktor’s wound, heating the area with his touch. “I’m not enough for you.”

“You’ve always been.” Viktor pulled Yuuri’s hand away from the inner-compartment of the dashboard, curling his fingers between Yuuri’s like they’ve once done before on a midsummer’s eve. A kiss followed every word spoken, pressed softly against Yuuri’s knuckles. “You’ve always been more than enough for me.”

“Viktor, you don’t…” Words barely passed the threshold of Yuuri’s throat, barely up the steps before they knocked on the door leading to his lips. Yuuri snatched his fingers out from Viktor’s grasp. “You don’t really mean it.”

Viktor tilted his head. “Is that what you’ve been telling yourself for the past two years?”

Yuuri shook his head. “No, I--” Again, the words were caught at his threshold. Slowly throughout the conversation, Yuuri slipped his body out from the car. Until only his fingers were left, hovering over the rim of the open window. Even then, Yuuri slipped them out immediately when Viktor reached for the door handle and got out of the car. His suit jacket trailing behind him before Viktor slipped it on; his torso leaned against the stony railing of St. Petersburg’s bridge. Breath coiling up into the air as smoke in the dead of that night.

Viktor’s bangs tickled the bridge of his nose when he lowered his gaze, admiring the depths below him with a soft smile.

“When I first saw you, after all these years, I told myself that I wasn’t going to fall in love.” His voice low and steady, like a drum beating the entrance for an inevitable storm. “If we fell for each other again, it would only open up more…”

Viktor licked his lips, suddenly fascinated by the reflection over his shoes from a passing caring when Yuuri approached from behind and rested his elbows against the stony railing, alongside with Viktor. Viktor tilted his face towards Yuuri, unable to meet his gaze for a moment before courage tapped into his senses.

“Every moment we spent together,” Viktor didn’t hide his smile, “I keep finding myself with these thoughts. Where I think about the future, _our_ future.”

“You suspected that I felt the same way?” Yuuri asked. Numb, for the most part as he slowly digested Viktor’s words.

His heartbeats quickened, the rhythm crashing together as cymbals before a grand orchestra where Viktor was the maestro to his heart’s melody. Baton at the ready, Viktor held the orchestra at a _fermata._ A quick downbeat resonated in the silence between him and Yuuri on the bridge, and Viktor moved the imaginary-orchestra through a harrowing passage.

“I suspected that you hid your feelings for _other_ reasons.” Viktor’s gaze never wavered, despite Yuuri’s reluctance to meet his eyes. “Is that why we broke up?”

“No.” Yuuri spat the response out as if it was poison. “Not at all.”

Viktor folded his fingers over each other and rested his chin over his knuckles. “What was it, then?”

His eyes tore away from Yuuri’s face and stared briefly at their reflection in the frigid water below. A pale, orange outline where he and Yuuri were. Dark ripples fading between them when a pebble fell over and prodded the water’s edge.

Yuuri’s nails buried into his sleeves. “I did it for you.”

The look on Viktor’s face must have said it all because Yuuri’s walls crumbled, one by one. Yuuri clung to himself for security despite his crumbling state, drawing Viktor closer until his love was a breath away from falling apart.

“I didn’t know how much you meant to me until I had to subtract you from my life. It was either you or surviving in the mafia somehow.” Yuuri’s nails punctured the skin along his wrists. They only loosened at Viktor’s touch but even then, Yuuri’s body didn’t know whom to trust.

On one hand, Yuuri wanted to squeeze every part of his body until all his blood slushed out. On the other hand, Viktor acted as a mediator between the physical acts of pain, trying to lull Yuuri back to his centre so that he could find peace despite the divergence of what he needed to do and what he wanted to do. Tears spilled down Yuuri’s cheeks, far sooner than he could catch them.

_“I didn’t want to lose you.”_ Yuuri buckled under his emotions, breath hitched at the back of his throat when Viktor caught a single tear along the edge of his pinkie. Bringing the tear closer to himself, watching it fall into the salty sea below at a single flick, the drawbridge to Viktor’s heart lowered. From the dust of two long years, Viktor met Yuuri at the middle of these twisted emotions, gutted with a knife.

“On the day we broke up, I wanted to go to Hasetsu.”

Thinking back on it, Viktor felt a bolt of laughter down his side. Perhaps, out of pity for his younger self. Perhaps, for an emotion that Viktor couldn’t quite describe because if the moment hadn’t come, Viktor wouldn’t have heard Yuuri’s heartfelt words. Viktor folded his fingers between Yuuri’s and held his lover steady as the weight of the truth spilled out in waves. Small, unnoticeable at first until they grew too great for one person to bear.

“I bought a plane ticket in advance, and I was revising some of my plans before you gave me the call.” Viktor remembered the day too clearly when he brushed his bangs behind his ear. “We both had something to say, a little banter to see who would say their thing first. I wanted to keep my surprise for a little longer, so I asked if you could go first.”

Words froze at the tip of Viktor’s tongue, unsure if to be spoken. When Yuuri squeezed Viktor’s hand, sniffles and messy tears smudging the facade off from his face, Viktor found strength in Yuuri’s courage.

_“‘Let’s end this.’”_ Just as Yuuri had said it before, Viktor copied the same tone. The same death in the conversation that occurred two years ago. The echo stuck with Viktor’s voice, his throat constricting over a few words, when his secret crept out. “When I heard those words, your engagement ring slid out of my hands and bounced over the floor.”

Viktor’s fingers hovered over a familiar black box in his inner-pocket.

“I knew I should’ve waited, I should’ve said something sooner. If I wanted to surprise you, I wanted to do so while I was down on one knee. I could’ve spoken first but after hearing you speak, I wasn’t sure if it was appropriate or if you’ll feel awkward. But at the time, I wished that I had the chance to propose to you.”

Turning on the heels of his shoes, Viktor reached out for Yuuri’s hand again. Slipped out from his suit jacket was the black box, held so tenderly on Viktor’s palm and caressed so softly by his fingers. When Viktor knelt down on one knee, Yuuri hid his face with his other hand. Tears flowing freely and dripping onto the ground and into Viktor’s hair like the first drops of rain.

“For two years, this box has been in my room. Sitting in a corner, where I prayed every day that I would forget it was there.” Viktor pried the box open with his thumb. Sitting in the middle of its velvet cushion was a silver ring, winking like a star that Viktor had plucked from the night sky.

No words, no reaction crept over Yuuri’s features. His eyes, engulfed by the beauty in Viktor’s hand. Yuuri’s ears perked up when Viktor spoke again, a little more movement behind his words. A little waltz of a rhythm that kept Yuuri engaged, enough so where he and Viktor swayed back and forth just a bit in a stationary dance of their love.

“I, too, am afraid of losing you.” If there was more to say after the statement, Viktor left it to Yuuri’s imagination. For what words could he say to convey the sleepless nights that used to haunt his past before and after Yuuri left a gaping hole in Viktor’s life. Filled with love and even so, spilled over with tears at the thought of an early _‘goodbye’._

Yuuri adjusted his hand so that his fingers fitted well between Viktor’s. “If this love hurts you, why do you still carry it?”

“Even though I’m afraid of this, of us, of what’ll happen after I let go of your hand…” Viktor pressed Yuuri’s hand against his cheek. His eyes closed for the longest moment before they opened again. Viktor slipped the silver ring out from the black box. _“I love you.”_

Viktor could almost hear his younger-self, standing behind him and sighing. Whispering that Viktor should recite from the script he had written for this similar moment, two years ago. No matter how often Viktor recited from that script, but he found a better set of lines at this moment than he did before. Lines that he had been writing in his heart ever since he made the conscious-decision to tuck Yuuri’s engagement ring into his suit jacket earlier that evening.

“Pain is love?” The words crept quietly from Yuuri’s lips.

“Love is pain.” Viktor slipped the engagement ring carefully along Yuuri’s finger. “Or perhaps, loving you has given me a lot of pain because I couldn’t imagine a life without you in it.”

A ghost of what he wanted to say slipped from Yuuri’s lips as a sigh when he lifted Viktor back onto his feet. Standing as equals along St. Petersburg’s bridge, Yuuri buttoned Viktor’s suit jacket so that the latter wouldn’t feel cold. “Do I really mean that much to you?”

“Yuuri, I think you should give yourself more credit about this.” Viktor brushed his thumb under Yuuri’s lips, and the touch lifted a reddish smile over Yuuri’s face. “You share my same fears, and my same love,” Viktor whispered. He could’ve leaned in for a kiss, but Viktor met a more fulfilling touch when he cradled Yuuri’s hands so lovingly to keep them warm.

They stood there on the bridge, not knowing what to say next. However, were words needed right now? When Yuuri looked into Viktor’s eyes, he found the love that he had to put away. He found the love that was tucked in the very corner of his heart. Where once, Yuuri and Viktor fitted well together like a lock and key. But when Yuuri changed his lock, Viktor couldn’t fit that way. Viktor had to forge another key to unlock Yuuri again.

Two hearts united as one when Yuuri and Viktor bridged the space between with a tender embrace. This hug, this touch, it was as if they’ve never done this before.

_You meet me where I am._

  
  


**Next on _chapter 2…_**

Just as the first candle began to die, a wandering hand hovered over the wick and a flame blossomed beneath the fingertips. Smoke plumed like an offering before the benevolent God and Christ. Hands pressed, images burned across stained windows, the caricatures and symbols watched as the weekly churchgoer recited his prayers. Low, quiet, calm. The words resonated like an old brass bell, echoing in a narrow chamber in his heart before Christ opened the window for his voice to be heard. The steady beads of a rosary trailed through wayward fingers, a little clumsy at best until the visitor found his bearings.

His shuffles against the tilted floor marked the stillness of the chapel before he sat himself at one end of the Reconciliation Booth. On the other side, Father Yakov rested comfortably over his seat. A papery bible laid across his lap, his cross leaning over to rest on his shoulder. Joined by another, when the visitor rested his cross there so. With the weight distributed evenly between them, despite the purple curtain that hid their faces from one another, the visitor found his strength in the silence.

“Hello, Father.”

“Hello, my Child.” Father Yakov opened his bible, his finger skimmed down one of the first few pages where the Table of Contents was. His nail underlined a particular chapter, a familiar story that all sinners could relate to before healing. “Shall we begin?”

Rosary beads clashed into one another as fumbling fingers held them steady against a heart. The visitor lifted his hands and went through the movements of initiation, addressing the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit with an _Amen._ Father Yakov followed with the movements, his voice quiet so that he could hear his Child. The visitor recited the beginning words for the Act of Reconciliation, and he thumbed through every bead of his rosary as he spoke.

“It has been seven days since my last confession of sins.”

Father Yakov nodded. “What ails you?”

A slight creak from the other side of the booth when the visitor rested his chin along his knuckles. A slight glint of silver shone through the velvet curtains, catching Father Yakov’s eyes. “For when God spoke and said, _‘Thou shalt not kill’,_ my hands and soul had very much done the deed.”

Echoing, just outside the confession booth, was a silver ring that had rolled and bounced off the tiled floor.


	2. Make Me Bend or Break (Our fate is pulled by the cards)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _ “You’re a story where you don’t know if the worst is going to happen. There’ll be teases, heartstrings will be cut and resewn. Again and again, wonderment rusts to lackluster when the truth settles in. Do they? Don’t they? Who dies? No one knows, except for you. Only you and yet, you’re bound to the same strings that tangle everyone else.” _
> 
> Viktor Nikiforov -  _ Joker  _ of the Bratva of Hearts
> 
> * * *
> 
> _ “You’re a story, written and outlined to its fullest capacity. There is pain, but so there will be joy. We’re woven together like broken chords, yet we complement each other to create this noise. Let me destroy you, as softly as you have made me crumble. Let me rebuild you, one brick at a time.” _
> 
> Katsuki Yuuri -  _ Joker  _ of the Tokyo Syndicate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rising from the crickets that overtook this account for the past five weeks, I’m proud to announce that I finished chapter 2 of this very long fanfic. It’s like a horcrux. Every time I write for it, I feel a little more of soul going into this story. Thank you for the kudos/comments from chapter one! Having only read mafia fics from afar, I wasn’t sure how to create my own universe in this diverse AU. I think I’m on a good track, though.
> 
> In regards to the story, I strongly recommend reading this oneshot,  [ How to Tame a Desire ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13660533) , before reading this chapter. The oneshot picks up right after Yuuri and Viktor propose, and it’s through Viktor’s thoughts on what would happen if they got married now. It highlights some of the concerns Viktor has, and it reveals his current interpretation of Yuuri now. Having learned that Yuuri’s part of a mafia and most-likely an enemy.
> 
> The beginning of this chapter focuses a lot on character development, story establishment, world building, and OC-involvement. Writing OCs for a fanfic is like a double-edged sword, but there are roles in this story that I can’t give to any canon character because it wouldn’t fit them. Because of this and perhaps some of y’all are weary about OCs taking the spotlight from a fic for a moment, it won’t hurt my feelings if you decide to skip the beginning.
> 
> Viktor’s introduction into the chapter begins with the line:  _ There was nothing like coming back to the place where it all began. _
> 
> Without further ado, I hereby present chapter 2. I’ve been nurturing chapter form almost an entire month, and I feel like a parent. Watching my child take their first steps.
> 
>  
> 
> Audio for the beginning of the fic:  [ Valley of Kings ](https://yuuris-piano.tumblr.com/post/171465818806/excerpt-from-how-to-tame-a-heart-wip-chapter-2)

A murmur was only worth a listen in the Valley of Kings. In a sanctuary where a breath began like a conversation with the wind, all those who walked in the shadows emerged into the courtyard and were swept under the triumph and misery of those who walked before them. These were the roots, once tapped to a vein that gave every leader a bout of courage in the face of adversity. These were the tiles, once shattered an arm and bruised a shoulder in fighting circles. These were the last sights a leader saw when discovering from whom they came from. History had a horrible track record when it came to deaths, but this sanctuary welcomed all that took their last stand under the sun.

Bones of the former _Greats_ and _Conquerors_ laid exposed, quivering under the beached gardens they once stomped upon. The brave and the bold laid undisturbed, withered in their tombs and asleep while a lone _Ophelia_ sang from her harp’s corner. Teas once flowed through these tombs like a mighty river but nowadays, the passageways were flooded with little trickles along the floor. The wells were near and dry after a lifetime or two.

An _Ophelia,_ with a ruffle of her wings, guided the beaten and the damned when skeletons wandered throughout the night. Their rusted weapons dragged behind, carving intricate trails along the barren walls. A trail here, a trail there. As soon as they appeared, they disappeared. So many were written out by the victors.

Oh, a name resonated when a finger trailed down the length a wall, traced over the indents that once held the words. Perhaps a face accompanied the name, along with those slain because of that name. Perhaps the juniper trees bore fruit, simply to admire but not be touched on an unmapped journey in death. Whatever the case may be, Mama walked along the former glories of the Valley of Kings. A hot mug of tea, steam spiraled upwards when she took her sip, guided her through the inner catacombs like a kerosene lamp. Upon a heartbeat, the Valley of Kings resembled more of an art gallery than a walk amongst the pyramids.

There, on a ceramic podium chiseled by a great-grandfather’s hand, laid the needles of a formidable _Queen_ of Hearts. Mama Chiznova of Ukraine once knitted her hit-list between the scarves she gave out on Christmas Eve. All those who received one were gone as a goose the next morning, swept into the festivities within Chiznova’s heart for a banquet was set on the dining table. The best meats picked out for every guest at the table, even for her enemies. Whom were slaughtered before the afternoon tea, rammed by a needle through the throat and subdued under a pile of fleece from a knitting basket.

Hung behind a filtered curtain laid a portrait of Mama Catalina from Kazakhstan, amused over a set of cards knitted between her fingers when the painter sketched her across a canvas. Just shy of eighteen, an oiled brush splashing freckles over her cheeks, Catalina’s tongue was as silver as a snake’s. How the bended beasts crept down her shoulders, draped casually over an arm when Catalina held her cards. Blurred denominations reflected in her eyes, a smirk a corner away from showing. As sweet as the smile could be, as sweet as her words could relay in this game of cat-and-mouse, Catalina held the weathered gaze of a _King_ that neither paint nor oil could convey. Safe to say, that gaze was dormant behind a privacy curtain for Catalina died young, as early as twenty-four when she fought with her husband on the frontlines of a Second World War. Only the velvet flowers could clothe her then from a smoking bullet to the heart.

Just as a prayer was sent to the women that Mama had only heard from, never met, her eyes darkened considerably when moved on from Mama Catalina. Her lips, pursed, at the mouth of her drink when a redwood shelf protruded like an overgrown weed in the Valley of Kings.

All the rain that ever fell in the sanctuary flowed to this weed, for no river nourished it when it sprung up between two cracks in a wall. Thistle, thorny, kill it with fire before it flowered, this weed was as crippled as any other plant when devoid of love. Then again, it wasn’t Mama’s obligation to give it love. This weed, this redwood shelf, displayed only one book. Propped on its back, its spine against the sturdy wood, laid a diary written by Mama Mosma.

In all fairness, Mama knew nothing of her mother.

She was merely a ghost that once crept through the house and perhaps, she was a ghost to this day. Watching over her daughter and grandson from the folded shadows on her diary page. Sometimes when the nightmares were visceral in the middle of the night, Mama would often flip through the diary and frowned as to how similar her handwriting was to these cursed sheets.

Was she doomed to be as neglectful and unforgiving as her mother? No, Mama had battled a great demon when she carried Alexa three years ago, and she snapped its neck over a fire, where her mother once burned herself while cooking.

Then turn, there came the happiest years of Mama’s life when she approached a rickety ironing-board with a suit, affectionately draped over the edge. The jacket held a plastic, white carnation in its pocket and the pants were worn to the touch. The usual dress shirt, with an unforgettable burn on the back from when the press was left on for too long, wrinkled under the dust that piled upon on it. It had been a year since these articles were worn, by the very same man that had pleasured Mama for nearly eighteen years. What began with a humble flower plucked from the countryside ended with a lover bleeding out within Mama’s arms. The number eighteen could hardly encompass the thousands of things that occurred in between.

More-so, Mama was not the only one admiring the pressed suit and its accompaniment. Fingers at their chin with a peculiar narrow of the eyes, Rosencrantz studied the heirlooms of the previous _King_ of Hearts. Like a tool fit for a garden, they held themselves like a meticulous sculpture crafted by fickle hands.

One moment, Rosencrantz had their head tilted to the side, lips slightly apart when a six-year-old memory dawned on them of the first time they met Mama’s husband. The next moment, Rosencrantz lifted an eyebrow. A glint from one of their ear-piercings twitched a smile on Mama’s face. Good to know that Rosencrantz had been switching designs since the last time they met. On a ferry? Mama got herself distracted again. She cleared her throat, reeling Rosencrantz attention away from a fourteen-year-old burn on the back of the dress shirt.

“I wouldn’t have known you had an eye for things like,” Mama lifted her lips from her drink, _“this.”_

“I’d imagine that these memories are worth more than a simple word like _‘this.’”_ Curt and to the point, said the _Spade_ to the _Heart._ Mutual silence, a bit of understanding, draped over their shoulders like a mid-morning shawl.

Rosencrantz reiterated their thoughts, mumbling no harm done in paying respects forward. _None taken,_ came Mama’s response, followed by a nudge on the shoulder. Like a child that ran away from the family, Rosencrantz’s clunky footsteps accompanied the quiet, steadfast steps carried Mama on her way back to the kitchen. Where the “rest of the family” huddled over mugs of tea, and good ol’ Archie grumbled about his growing back pains. Fedosia, pinkie lifted when she drank her portion, slid a napkin across Rosencrantz’s thigh when they took their seat at the square-dining table. Pressed and folded, as if a casual drink deserved the same glitter as a luxurious meal.

In such a mock fashion as this family charade was, where _Pakhan_ was assigned a script and their part, Mama knew her lines so well that roasted pecans were plucked from the oven and served along a slice of lime pie before anyone could voice that they were peckish. So fitting, yet the light bulb swinging over everyone’s heads outlined a sinister cut when Mama served a slice for herself last.  A smile, a grin, a moment where Mama felt especially proud as the host for tonight’s meeting, and poison could’ve been in her lime pie and no one would’ve tasted it when the texture melted over a tongue.

The delectable smells drew little Alexa from the comforts of his bed, and the muffled raindrops behind every step he took cascaded down the stairway. A glossy look casted into the kitchen from his ashy eyes, and Mama excused herself and met Alexa at the bottom of the stairs. Little comforts, here and there. Mama hugged and pressed an apology at her son’s ear. Alexa didn’t mind that a few friends wanted to stay with his Mama. But if his Mama wanted to bring her best apology forward, Alexa whispered if he could have a slice of lime pie. Mama laughed under her breath, whispering back that Alexa would make a perfect _Pakhan_ one day. However, sweets before sleep wasn’t good for proper health. Even so, the rest of her company noticed how Mama slipped a few pecans into Alexa’s hands before sending him off to bed. Her footsteps accompanied his up the stairs, and she tucked Alexa for the second time that night.

“Do you lie to him often?” Fedosia earned herself stares when Mama took her seat at the head of the table, once again.

“I change my words until he’s old enough to understand.” Mama’s fork sunk cleanly into her slice of pie. “He wants to be a _Pakhan_ one day, and I know he will. But in this day and age, I do my best to remind Alexa that he’s still my little boy.” Such warmth behind those words. It meant little to nothing to the rest.

Nothing good came to those who took up the family business, but those thoughts weren’t said. Simply conveyed through the clinks of forks, slicing into a respective pie slice, and the slurps of tea from the new glass cups Mama purchased a few days before.

Scheduling quiet moments like this with her colleagues brought a beautiful smile to her face. Brighter than the ringlets of gold dangling around Fedosia’s fingers, more prominent than the frown on Archie’s face, or how Rosencrantz glanced to elsewhere when their eyes couldn’t settle on one thing.

Thing.

In the end, they were all things. Meant to play a part in a grand act and this was the final one, too. Archie coughed, gestured a hand if anyone wanted to speak first. They all had the same thought in mind but really, who wanted to talk about it? Who wanted to admit that the safety of their own business, _their family,_ was compromised by a single man? _Who?_

Not Archie. He steered his nose out of that conflict, pray that he doesn’t lose another chunk off his nose from saving someone’s neck. His grizzled gaze swept the dining table, fell upon the soft chiseling sound of Fedosia’s nails when they were molded into mini-daggers. If beauty was danger, those nails protruded like talons as Fedosia busied herself so she wouldn’t speak.

Tongue in cheek, quite literally as she chewed on the edge to keep herself occupied. Her eyes narrowed at Archie’s, and Archie looked down at his pie plate instead. While his plate was clean, ‘cept for a crumbs and a dollop of whip cream he raked off, Archie took his chances and slid his gaze upward and found Fedosia’s plate. Untouched, not a crumb. By how her nails tapped on her edge of the table, it was safe to look at Fedosia comfortably because all her attention was on Mama.

If staring meant a loss in money, Fedosia racked herself a hefty debt because Mama seemed oblivious to her stare. Though, the sweet smile on her face began to crumble to reveal a true look of concern. The first frown from her tonight, and Fedosia smiled at that. The brush of her ponytail slipped effortlessly off from her shoulders, trailed down the length of her back with a curious tilt. A slight lean to truly capture every second from a crumbling _Heart._

Ten years younger than their fellow colleagues, Rosencrantz spoke first. A meeting meant that opinions and statements were said and heard, not thrown across a table with a shady glance or intimate stare. All of which felt too foreign and the translations were lost to Rosencrantz, a fury of pink creeping up their neck as soon as they said,

 “I have information on our would-be hacker.”

As if the rest were reminded that they had mouths, Fedosia commanded her voice as if it was a gun pointed under the table. Pointed squarely at Rosencrantz’s kneecap if they dared to scoot away.

“I doubt they’re a _‘would-be’_ if they have the dirt on all of us.” Fedosia dug her nails into her sleeve. Again, that self-natured attitude pricked Rosencrantz like a thorn.

Fine, _would-be_ wasn’t an appropriate word, but was the deprecatory tone necessary in a time where voices needed to be heard? What good could Fedosia do, slowly filing her nails away, and for what? Looking sharp meant nothing when hundreds of lives were compromised because of one individual, and Fedosia still clung to the word _“us”._ As if the word was humble synonym for _“me, myself, and I”,_ and Rosencrantz couldn’t turn a blind eye to this madness.

“We can save your stocks later.” Rosencrantz had left the pan and jumped into the fire.

Fedosia twisted her face so sharply, Rosencrantz felt a hitch of their breath at the back of their throat. Worried, for a moment, that Fedosia would strike like the serpent so many had claimed her to be. But no, the hood of her anger was the same as a cobra’s. Only a charmer could lead a snake to slither, to hiss, to raise its hood. No being could commend a snake to bite, to lash, to strangle. Oh, but Rosencrantz did the best they could in the line of fire.

Sitting as if they were the only one vulnerable to what was going on. As if data, spreadsheets, and thousands of ones and zeroes meant more than flesh and bone. Bones crack, fracture, twist, and snap. Flesh, as bountiful and articulate as it was in its movements, was bound to a predetermined blueprint. Flesh bled, burned, and splintered into a thousand pieces on the floor. Ones and zeroes didn’t bleed out of a body, nor would a computer cough blood if skewered by a virus.  If Rosencrantz didn’t believe in that truth, then they were stuck behind a screen for far too long. Perhaps, if Fedosia gutted Rosencrantz open, would she find a heart or a core-7 processor where human decency should've been?

Fedosia rammed her fork through her lime pie, almost splitting the plate underneath. _“Don’t forget,”_ Fedosia blew her bangs away from her eyes, _“you’re not the only one exposed here.”_

Dollars were as infinite as the people that bought and sold them. If the economy happened to go south, hundreds of individuals, businesses, and corporations bound to Fedosia’s name could barely be sheltered by the funds she kept in her private bank. Money meant more than living with a price-tag between one’s teeth, but it kept a roof over a head, a bed to return to every night, and food to keep the demons away. More than anything, money needed the most security because it was the one that people turned to in a crisis.

Not that information was a pile a dust, but it was a mountain of numbers that could destroy a life. Not end it. That was money’s job, and that street corner was one Fedosia was all too familiar with. The burns from those days hidden underneath her flowing sleeves, a scattering of dark imprints to where cigars used to be.

In the background, mostly silent except for a few grunts when his back began to ache, Archie carved a reasonable chunk of tension from between Rosencrantz and Fedosia and laid the bit across his pie plate. “I say we lay blame. Not on us, but someone that’s not us.” He fiddled his fork like it was the end of a comical mustache.

Albeit, the suggestion was a joke, but it didn’t seem funny when Fedosia’s anger raised its hood. The metaphorical cobra emerged from its crib, flicking its tongue with a hiss. The head, rested softly down Fedosia’s arm while the tail curled down the length of her leg when it rested on her lap.

“We’ll be the laughing stock to the police and they’ll hound us. One by one.” Fedosia’s cobra bared its fangs, beady eyes stared coldly at Archie’s grizzled gaze. “I swear to G--”

“There’ll be no explicatives thrown in this household,” Mama said, and her word was law. This was her kitchen; this was her home. Her son was only ten feet above them, sleeping with a plush dinosaur given to him by his Papa on his first birthday. “Take it outside if you want to say it.”

“By _damn,_ you’ve been idly sitting to the side for well over a year and this is what you have to say to us? _To me?”_ Fedosia flung her fork across the table, and Mama caught it between her fingers. She breathed softly, hummed a tune, and returned her attention back to Fedosia. Fedosia, breathing heavily under a dress that she explicitly bought from Spain for another occasion than tonight’s, narrowed her eyes coldly. “You know why this happened. If not, you’re a liar.”

“Lies are as plentiful as the truths we want to listen to,” Mama replied. She gestured for Fedosia to settle down. “I won’t deny that I knew what was going on, but I know you all will say the exact, same thing.” Mama glanced at her company, and hesitant nods and elsewhere-eyes replied to her call. “We’re in this together, like a family. We have our faults; we have our flaws. Our ideals and goals are different but for once, we’re on the same agenda about a foreigner coming into _our_ house and leaving us in this mess to sort for ourselves.”

“Isn’t the man-in-question under your care?”

Archie was an honest man when honesty didn’t need to nose itself into an argument.

Suddenly, all the words that Mama had said seemed so trivial when the truth came out. As if a giant hovered its lips over the kitchen and its inhabitants before blowing out the fire from four candlesticks. Smoldering, smoke trailing off from her lips, Mama could’ve been shot or very well have watched the death of another loved one before her eyes.

That guilt bled down the side of her face when she lost Fedosia. Where a glance felt warranted, Mama didn’t see it when Fedosia turned away. Crestfallen, fingers crumbled along her lap. Her cobra withered and slid off her shoulder like ash, disappeared into nothing before colliding with the tiled floor.

Archie wasn’t pleased either, with spilling the truth or knowing that it was true. He saw it all, through a contact lens in his chemist’s left eye when she played to her act at the end of Mama’s meal with the _man-in-question._ Technology was still foreign to Archie, he kept asking for help when the full screen display turned into a tiny box at a corner, but his mind turned and creaked like an old-fashioned database. Within the networks of the human mind, filing cabinets sprung open and a heap of papers whirled by like black-and-white photos.

There, a snippet from a newspaper that Archie had read during his afternoon-coffee, bled a face that seemed all too familiar to the humble _Ace_ sitting casually by Mama’s arm that night. Cue to a cross-reference from China, during a revolution held by college students and of the alike, a pixelated figure from afar was the leader of the entire charade. Archie’s eyesight or modern technology couldn’t enhance the figure’s quality, but the _Club_ recognized the slicked-back hair and a carefree, devilish smile that shot hearts quicker than a draw.

If there was one person that Mama could turn to for support, it was Rosencrantz. But even then, the chances were as slim as how tight Rosencrantz’ collar was before they loosened it with the edge of their thumb. About to speak, but Mama held a finger up.

“I had nothing to with the break in our security.” The words felt too mechanical, unlike the flair and movement behind her sentences prior to the reveal.

_“Falsehood,”_ Rosencrantz whispered between their teeth. Archie planted his lips against his teacup, though he never sipped. Fedosia scooted away from the argument, knowing well-ahead who’d win and who’d crash and burn along with the roasted pecans that suddenly felt cold when she gathered them in her palm.

Mama licked her bottom lip. “Mr. Katsuki reached out privately--”

“Is this another instance of you _‘changing a few words’--”_ Rosencrantz made air-quotes with their fingers “--because I don’t understand? Or, _Diana,”_ emphasize on the name, “are you growing soft on me because I’m a child to you?”

Rosencrantz barely met Mama’s gaze, and Mama wasn’t sure if it was better this way. The elsewhere-glance that Rosencrantz wore so perfectly, it created a buffer. A shield against the words, but the truth slit Mama’s throat. She could tell no lie when it came to Rosencrantz. There would always be a loophole for them to unearth with that trusty spade at their hip.

Mama or rather, _Diana,_ bit her bottom lip. Her finger slipped from the air and rested softly on her side of the table. “I was reached out by the Tokyo Syndicate.” She ignored how Fedosia suddenly leaned in close, clung to every word from that statement like it was another bit of betrayal. Diana closed her eyes briefly.

For a moment, her imagination reconstructed the inhabitants in her kitchen so that she was face-to-face with her husband instead of them. And instead of Fedosia leaning in, Diana heard the soft, fluttery breaths of a man she dedicated half of her heart to. Her husband’s face, not painted with betrayal, but there were splashes of concern for what Diana had gotten herself into. The teal behind his eyes, what Alexa inherited as soon as he took his first breath to cry three years ago, steadied Diana’s heart. She couldn’t lie to him either.

“The councilman from the Saga Prefecture needed testing grounds for one of his students,” Diana began. Just knowing that her husband was here with her, in spirit alone, gave her strength.

She felt a warmth along her hand when she felt his touch. Such a comforting touch, but it felt too real. When Diana opened her eyes to reality, she looked through the amber lingering behind Fedosia’s eyes. Even in betrayal and the blood stains they couldn’t quite wash from each other’s hands, the friend Diana had found in Fedosia reached out first. Strange to think about when Diana had promised that her first bullet would be lodged into Fedosia’s cerebral cortex, but she appreciated the gesture and thanked with a soft thumb against Fedosia’s palm.

Diana cleared her throat. “I complied, in exchange for getting information.”

“He took information from you first?” Rosencrantz furrowed their eyebrows, and Diana nodded. “How long ago was this?”

“About three months ago, corresponding to when you sent an alert about communication interference in the city.”

Hesitation hitched to the back of Rosencrantz’ question. _“Spade?”_ Almost a whisper, or a breath of a yell. The silence that soon followed only darkened the vein that had popped on the side of Rosencrantz’ forehead.

“Just the same blade, held by a different hand.” Diana lifted her napkin from her lap and folded it over her clean, pie plate.

Rosencrantz took this into consideration. “Why did you comply?”

“You sound as if I had a choice.” Diana managed a weak smile.

Rosencrantz scooted their chair back, away from their edge of the table. _“Of course, you did.”_

 

The first to rise was Rosencrantz, having finished their pie and tea before gathering their thoughts after the past half-hour. Having heard Diana’s story, every nook and cranny that spilled like blood onto a floor, Rosencrantz twisted their metaphorical knife and dug it out from Diana’s side.

At once, Diana slouched in her seat. Age caught up to her like the flu, and Diana looked as ancient as Archie. Despite the reasonable gap between their ages, Archie took on a fatherly-role and rubbed Diana’s shoulders until her strength crept back. Diana slurped from her teacup, easily dribbling the content between her lips and onto the floor. Drips here, drops there.

“What was said tonight stays between us.” Rosencrantz took on the voice of reason when Diana forgot her lines. No, she knew her lines well. Instead of spouting them like she could tell no lie, Diana unearthed her script and browsed through the words she could’ve said, should’ve said, and wouldn’t have said.

Though the past half-hour was a blur to her mind, a different side of her reclaimed its roots and Diana could only watch from the sidelines like she had done before. As a little girl, waiting for a mother that would never come home because Mama Mosma wasn’t the type to kiss and tuck a child into bed.

“The _Ace,_ this Katsuki fellow.” The surname tasted like a bitterroot when it rolled off of Fedosia’s tongue. Barely numbed by the cold, sweet tea Diana had brewed for this meeting. “Are you sure we shouldn’t do anything?”

“If falsehood is negative, as it should be.” Rosencrantz met Diana’s gaze briefly. An invisible noose tightened around their neck when Diana stared back, eyes narrowed. Almost like a taunt, a warning if Rosencrantz dared to overstep their boundaries for another second. It took a moment for Rosencrantz to swallow their unease, regain their footing. _“Mama_ has everything under her control.” The sudden switch in names, as uncomfortable as it felt to Rosencrantz when they settled their dirty dishes into the sink, was neither deliberate but forced.

Not a word left Mama’s lips, but her message came tenfold with an imaginary blade crept over the front of Rosencrantz’ heart. Ready to strike at a moment’s notice if Mama was the type to do so, but she no longer was. However, old habits die hard and Rosencrantz noticed how similar Mama and Archie’s eyes were. Nothing more fitting for a pair of wolves, leaders of their own packs and prepared for a comeback.

With gnarled lines trailing down his face, a chunk of his nose chipped off his face, Archie’s gaze was airy as a canine testing the breeze with its nose. Sifting through the trivial and mundane for a prize that bared his teeth to snarl. Mama quieted Archie down with a lofty look, fitting for an old colleague from the frontlines of war. How her eyes softened for a moment to dull the bloodlust surfacing over Archie’s senses.

Like a lamb led to silence, Rosencrantz didn’t say another word. Simply gave acknowledging nods to each of their colleagues-- _no, to each of their superiors--_ before walking out.

What good was it to have information, but no qualms to defend it? No matter what they did behind a computer, Rosencrantz always walked away with a tail between their legs. Left to grumble, a heart grown hard as stone because face-to-face interactions yielded nothing for a mind to chew.

The next to leave was Archie, mumbling about his bad back. He shuffled out from the kitchen, his cup and pie plate left on the table, for he already had enough dishes to clean from his chemists. Enough toys to put away after his members made a mess of things in the training facilities, situated beneath the bustling hum of a nineteen-fifties’ bridge. Enough mouths to clean when blood dribbled between gaping mouths, slumped and unable to stand. Enough wounds to hug, hold, and cradle when flowers needed to be ordered again. The blooms floated along the water, dancing across the surface with soft bumps and nudges for every casualty in a ticking memory. How many? Archie lost track when his own pride and joy, his daughter, drifted along with the flowers. Because a grave was meant for the fallen and normal, not for those who risked their lives for what they thought was right. His daughter had always said those words, and now they echoed with the quiet hums of Archie’s heartbeats.

Archie thought he knew the difference, but his eyesight was poor. Just getting the right foot into the correct shoe was hard enough without having to think about the past and those lingering scars, etched on every surface that clothes hid from this world. “I need to borrow Guildenstern _.”_ Archie’s fingers fiddled at his shoelaces.

“I’ll give her a call.” Mama remembered how the former- _Club_ used to hover by Archie’s side, tending to his trivial needs. Nose brushed behind a clipboard while a pen scribbled over twelve lines per second. A modest introduction from a marksman with an unknown body count and ten years ago, it made all the difference when she won Guildenstern through a bet and Mama had the perfect cards to flush Archie’s attack off from the betting table.

Archie never forgot that loss, but he was a _Pakhan_ to his word. He ducked his head and smiled just as he left the front door. A childish glee brightened his face for an old friend would be visiting home.

When silence fell over the house and crept from the opening from where the front door was, Mama and Fedosia were left to each other’s company. They breathed in the same air that poisoned their insides. What was there to worry about than the chance of both women strangling each other with a napkin and a slice of pie? While only the crust remained on Mama’s plate, Fedosia’s portion remained untouched. Enough to choke Mama if Fedosia didn’t mind getting her hands dirty for once, but a _Diamond_ could be civil. If one watched the corners and did their best without getting cut.

Whether Mama moved first or if Fedosia felt hungry at midnight, the _Diamond_ found a forkful of pie near her face. The gesture was rough, just as Fedosia preferred when negotiations couldn’t be done with an exchange of words.

The fork quivered slightly, Mama contemplated whether or not to drop it in the end. A cruel mark of betrayal on her part, but it was the first tally of this year. Ever since Mama returned to her post as the _Queen_ of Hearts, Fedosia stopped dreaming of this moment because she knew it would happen one day. Here, the event had come, and Mama was still playing with a poor hand when she had a better set of cards just earlier. Back when a familiar glint lingered in her eyes, that of a former tracker. Whom Fedosia could’ve traded anything just for a proper dance. With knives at the sleeves of her dress but tonight, no. Her sleeves were bare, except for a _Heart_ at the end of her hand.

She could touch Mama if she wanted to, but Fedosia slipped her fingers away. Mama grabbed her hand, so suddenly. Could’ve taken Fedosia’s breath away if she was the type, but a warm _tick tock_ resonated somewhere in her chest because Mama reached out to her, willingly. Desperately, even, if Fedosia wanted to think of it that way. In this quietness hovering over their shoulders like a shawl, Mama wiped back the tear that crept down from Fedosia’s eye. Her thumb grazed over the feature, holding it up to the light before it fell like a pin drop.

Splashed, silence again.

“I can’t forget what you did to my husband, but I learned to forgive,” Mama managed to say. Her teeth grazed the edge of her bottom lip. She loosened her grip on Fedosia. “If you want to touch me, by all means, go for it.”

“Give you satisfaction that I’ve grown soft? Hardly.” Even so, Fedosia laced her fingers between Mama’s fingers. Gently cradling the touch over her palm. “No one is holding you back, so I expect big things from you.”

“The only one holding me back is myself,” Mama said, soft laughter filtering through the silence that felt too unnatural between friends, enemies, betrayers, and friends yet again. “I intend for it to remain that way.”

“What about the _Ace?”_

“One of the reasons why an _Ace_ replaced the _Joker_ because an _Ace’s_ role is indefinite. It sticks to its label and never changes. A _Joker,_ those are the cards you watch out for. Indefinitely, they’ll take on the role that no other card could do. Makes them perfect when someone has an _Ace_ up their sleeve.”

 

Indeed, an _Ace_ was up his sleeve when an elderly passenger rose from his seat at the edge of an aisle. How this feeble, once strong heart thumped thrice more than it ever did before. Simply to rise, simply to show how much life still flowed through these crippled veins. This weakness, these minuscule bits of struggle that baited every breath from the crooked frame, seemed so ordinary.

No one batted an eye on the plane, except for a parent or two. A breath away from calling for help if the elderly passenger took more time than he could chew. But no, they stared at him as if he was a newborn, learning to walk for the first time. A newborn in death for he could feel the faint whisper against his neck. Not quite here, but closer than it had ever been before when one step became two.

If he was, let’s say, in the engulfing baths from an onsen and someone saw him shake this hard, no sooner would he grab a towel, there would be dozens of helping-hands. Reached out to hold him tightly so that he wouldn’t slip. So he wouldn’t fall back like a teabag against a steaming cup, and his colors would saturate the beverage until no other flavor could drive him out.

_This is the price of an old life,_ Mr. Fukumori thought. Blissfully unaware of his disguise for a moment, overcome with a smile that stretched from one end to another. Suddenly trembling more than before, at his joints and elbows, because his feet could still move. His legs, one step in front of another, pushed him forward. His hands clutched to every armrest and headrest that lowered its neck for him to hold onto, and Mr. Fukumori was steady with his strides. Breaths, so shallow, as the airplane plummeted from its perch on the jet-stream. From there, it nose-dived. Quite gradually at first, almost like falling asleep. Not for a babe clutched in its mother’s arms, but more like a tired, broken soul shuffling under the covers before a hooded figure closed one’s eyes for another dream. For dreams were as tangible as one would like to them to be, but nightmares were dreams too.

Too tangible to Mr. Fukumori’s liking when the plane rocked back and forth on its descent. Thousands of trees and bushes pulled back like a skirt over bare ground when Russia draped herself effortlessly over a glacier-table. Blush climbing over her milky features like the city lights that drowned out the sky, blinding the fly, where in which the plane embodied, as it buzzed for a place to land. A bit tricky when the earth quaked at every hour, on the clock. Surged by a sudden heat flushed over vulnerable ground, where ridges thrusted and slipped past each other in a messy affair that the human condition couldn’t feel anymore.

Tangled in kisses, the subtle bites along the shoulder and the moans creeping out from the earth, these rumbles and sudden turns kept the skies busy. Much too busy for anyone’s business, but it didn’t seem so tedious if one was a touristy-grandpa. Left to his own devices in home away from home, Mr. Fukumori pressed his sleeve against his chest and mosied down the aisle way. Careful to excuse himself, slowly migrating from end of the plane to the other. Slight pants, how his heartbeats were quite jarring at this altitude when a flight attendant stopped him in his tracks. Middle-aged, possibly a father to three or a man that wished he had spent more time with his wife, the flight attendant hesitated for what felt like a second. More than enough time for someone to snipe him through the heart or shoot a toe off of his foot if one was in the mood. Mr. Fukumori wasn’t in the mood, but he sure thought about it when he had to pause his journey.

“Sir, we’re about to land in a few minutes. It’ll be much safer for you to be in your seat.” No harm done. A good warning, it was. If it didn’t feel so cheap, and if the man could look at Mr. Fukumori in the eye. Out of respect? No, out of giving up his life so soon without a fight. As if the man had chosen this profession, simply because of the benefits and the pay than personal gain he could fertilize his soul with, but when did people actually stop to care about trivial matters like that? Life was in the _Now,_ than in what was to come. If only Mr. Fukumori could put these thoughts into words. But alas, he was near-damn eighty and his English didn’t sound good when his feet weren’t firmly planted onto the ground. For language came from the roots and the feet were the only roots Man could rely on without having to walk.

“Safe for everyone if I sit on a different seat,” Mr. Fukumori wheezed in response. Hands massaging over his front and pinching a flub of his coat to accentuate how perky his bladder had been feeling for the past seven hours. The flight attendant understood and mumbled for Mr. Fukumori to hurry. Even walked behind him, slacking at the man’s heels as if Mr. Fukumori was going to fall over and sue. Hardly, if even. Mr. Fukumori would simply fall back and play the game of trust, pray that the flight attendant would catch him before gravity had its way with Mr. Fukumori’s physics and mathematical design.

Somehow in this game of cat-and-mouse, where Mr. Fukumori wheezed like the crumbling Jerry he was, his less than enthusiastic Tom pulled back the lavatory doors before Mr. Fukumori squeezed himself in. At the last second, their sleeves brushed. A hard, cylindrical object perched at the edge of Mr. Fukumori’s sleeve. Made of glass, filled with a drink that he _definitely_ stowed on his person before boarding the plane. Mr. Fukumori pretended that he had a bladder to empty, and the flight attendant pretended that it was anything else than what he originally thought after a brief flush of rationale. When the door closed behind him, Mr. Fukumori locked and gave the door a good shake. Then, and only then, it felt safe to be who he wanted to be.

Hunched over like a bartender wrestling a few drinks over his shoulders, Mr. Fukumori tried to peel his coat off. His lovely bottle of sake slid into the sink with a wondrous _ting_ floating up to his ear. Mr. Fukumori flapped at his sleeves, watching the ends flop around like useless wings. Oh, these wings knew how to fly. But right now, Mr. Fukumori entertained himself. Pressing odd looks, goofy faces, and pushing his nose up at every which degree to elicit laughter from his crusty lungs. The joys of that music brightened his complexion considerably, enough where the past twenty years slipped off from his features like an iceberg emerging from the snowy dust piled on top of it. Just enough to expose its former glory before it fractured, splintered into two and crashed into a murky depth below. What an odd feeling when Mr. Fukumori wiggled his hands out from his sleeve-tunnels and waved them under a faucet for the water to run.

Afterwards, hands perched on the edge of the tiny sink, Mr. Fukumori pulled a washcloth from his inner-coat and wiped the plaster and makeup hanging off his wrinkles. Whatever made him look eighty was sloughed off, revealing the same him but without the makeup. His reflection was sweating, droplets running down the surface and falling back into the sink after Mr. Fukumori waved his hands wet hands around. Sort of like a mutt that forgot its manners, but people usually found it cute because the dog was old and already on its last leg.

Feeling better, Mr. Fukumori plucked his delicious portion of sake and poured the content into a chipped, wooden cup that was always at his breast pocket. Rather strange for an elder to carry, but Mr. Fukumori wasn’t quite ready to carry out the title. Because in his teacup, there was the liquid of life. Settling at the bottom, kissing every tear and bruise that Mr. Fukumori hid under his overgrown coat when he took his first sip. He needed this moment, this brief pause from the world to hold himself together. His body was much like his teacup, ready to be tossed away because it was broken. But damn it, Mr. Fukumori held his blood well and not a drop spilled in his lifetime. No matter how many fractures tried to spit him open.

When the lavatory door slid open sometime later, Mr. Fukumori held his teacup between his teeth when he smoothed back his hair like the _grandfather_ he was meant to be. Forgo of what people expected of him if it was going to simply put him down. Walk out into the light, leave the shadows behind, and express the truth from the baggaged lies people always threw but never wanted to carry for themselves. Until now, until Mr. Fukumori felt comfortable in his skin because he had nothing else to lose at his fine age.

Sharp, slightly intimidating in his five-foot and a quarter-inch frame, and his coat was popped open. The buttons shining ever-so slightly like miniature badges he collected from all of history’s wars. Lopsided at best, bronze with hints of gold mixed in as compensation for what he never gained. But what made Mr. Fukumori proud in this skin, not tied down to the woes of past, was how his coat trailed behind him like the ends of a hero’s. Where an explosion felt oddly appropriate, only heads turned because of an unexpected man walking down the aisle with a bit of a limp because joints had a harder time of finding their youth than with clothes.

These glories, fastened over Mr. Fukumori’s shoulders, were as worn and scratched as his eyesight. He waved his hands around and eventually found his seat. Snow drifted past the windows outside, the climax to a noisy descent upon Russia’s indulgence. Though the grapevine, or through a vodka chain at another airport, Mr. Fukumori heard that were some good cookies along the streets of St. Petersburg, and he hoped he had enough yen to exchange for a decent sweet. He tucked his hand into one of his inner-pockets, thumbed through his money like an old machine. Numbers and math whizzed around in his mind until he felt the last banknote and felt satisfied.

He could’ve nodded off or could’ve taken another swig of his sake. He still had a lot left, despite the multiple sips and how firm his lips were against the chipped mouth of his teacup. In the end, Mr. Fukumori was quietly content with himself as people irritably woke up when their ears began to pop from change in air pressure. It didn’t bother Mr. Fukumori so much. Granted, he lost his use for hearing when retirement was a doorknob away from his standing and his career. Despite that knock, he didn’t answer and he was here to St. Petersburg for a business trip. Even though, it felt like his first vacation in some thirty odd years.

His mind kept wandering back to the deck of cards stowed in his luggage case, just above his head. His coat, as spacious as it was, didn’t have enough room for a humble deck! That was a good laugh, and Mr. Fukumori chose to keep his cards away. Perhaps, to dull his mind of the real reason he was in St. Petersburg. But really, it was so that he could keep his teacup close so it wouldn’t break from an accident. But shoot, if something happened to his cards, Mr. Fukumori wasn’t sure if his heart would be at ease for the rest of the trip.

How were the cards fairing? Alright? Sweaty? Displeased with their cramped conditions? Mr. Fukumori would have to play a game in the snow to win back their satisfaction because each card loved him as much as a lover. The same bite as well when the grimy edges left their paper cuts across his palm after a mishandled-use at the age of sixty-nine.

_It’s not too late to enjoy the past,_ Mr. Fukumori thought. His eyes slowly following the faint trails of snow outside. How each flake spun effortlessly like the calm before a storm, forever dancing in their ballet routine for they had no voice. What if a flake had a voice? Would anyone care to listen before they died on their descent? Or might as well, would a flake know which word to say before its life ended as quickly as it began? No truer mystery could capture the human condition and yet, everyone else simply buckled into their seats and drowned out the complaints that itched every corner of the mind. Some voices were too faint for the young to hear, and Mr. Fukumori spilled his sake in toast to that.

_Toast for the oblivious, for they shall never know pain._

_Toast for the complainers, for their voices drown out the herd._

_Toast for the present, for it never learned from the past._

And Mr. Fukumori saved his last toast for the luggage belt because it was broken at the airport, and he strolled by with his luggage behind him. Faintly aware of how annoyed people were because all their possessions were in the belly of a beast, and Mr. Fukumori was strolling on a prayer because God knew how many people prayed for him dead in the past century.

Upon stepping outside, snowflakes drifting between the gaps of the overhead pass and nesting in his hair, Mr. Fukumori wheeled his luggage to the edge of the sidewalk. The wheels buckling down over loose gravel and the tiny gaps between the slabs of concrete. His footsteps echoed to the edge of the oblivion, alone for the most part except for a few wandering souls that had nothing else to do but wait. Parked his luggage by his leg, Mr. Fukumori tucked his teacup back into his breast pocket and waited.

From there, the pedestrian zone opened up for shuttle buses and taxis to plow through. Beeps honked in the distance, too far for Mr. Fukumori to track down, but their echoes rippled through the cold, turbulent space as vehicles wheezed by. Barreling down the dark paths with one or both lights off because a driver could feel their surrounding through the steering wheel than on sight alone. No, Mr. Fukumori heard that saying wrong. However, his weary mind couldn’t think of the corrected version because his hand stuck out, and a black BMW slid from the darkness and into the light.

Sleek, imposing like an elk that stuck its head out from the wood-furnished trees. Wheels, like heavy hooves that dug into the gravel and mounted a place under a forgotten sun. Headlights, bright as the eyes of a prey’s yet narrowed like a predator’s. There was a familiar face behind the windshield, eyes as a soft hazel like the towering canopies in a summer-haze. Hair, short and red like a cigar after its final kiss at the lips before stomped out by a heavy boot.

Breath coiled like smoke when he exhaled, Mr. Fukumori approached the BMW and opened the back door. Tucked his luggage behind a seatbelt before climbing in, and the door closed so quietly that Mr. Fukumori couldn’t imagine himself in a cage. Not with the squishy leather seats, hot brew of tea in a kettle waiting for him along the side, and Mr. Fukumori couldn’t say _‘No’’_ to this experience when he situated himself and watched as his guide maneuvered out from the airport. Much like an elk, stalking back into the bush. Its antlers blended into the prickled trees, untamed by the winter that had collared everything else.

Mr. Fukumori was in the company of Madame Parrot, as he preferred to call her than by her actual name. Perhaps, he felt the need to sing out her name because her eyes and hair reminded him of the long-tailed swallows near Hasetsu, swooping down like gulls for the rice cakes and noodle snacks that no bird could deny. Perhaps, he felt the pleasure in calling her _Petrov,_ the name she introduced herself to him as. But like this, alone and with about half a meter in between them in the BMW, Mr. Fukumori could even call her _Diana_ if he wished.

The name swelled an uneasy feeling whenever she heard it, so Mama felt the slowness of her heart when Mr. Fukumori chose ‘ _Petrov’_ instead. He mumbled the name a little bit, getting a feel for it over his tongue before pronouncing it clearly. Not a hard name to say, but Mr. Fukumori had difficulties rolling his _R’s._ How he poured himself a steaming cup of tea and drank before attempting again, more confidence this time than last. His fractured teacup, perched between his hands like a child enjoying noodle soup at the first breath of winter.

“It’s been a while, Petrov.”

“Three months and counting,” came Mama’s call, like a cuckoo roosted in the trees. She adjusted her rearview mirror, partially to keep a close watch on Mr. Fukumori. Perhaps for more, like how his outer coat puffed out to cushion and hide every vulnerable spot laced across his body. Mr. Fukumori didn’t mind that Mama had easy access to such a private aspect of his life but then again, Mama had traded in her password just for a moment like this.

She had Mr. Fukumori in her cage. Mr. Fukumori had an _Ace_ up his sleeve. Mama could counter with her _Joker,_ but Mr. Fukumori knew more about card games than her. He was a gambler, enjoyed it with a side of sake and tea if appropriate, while Mama enjoyed a humble game of checkers. A smile graced over her lips because she took one of Mr. Fukumori’s men, and now she was _King_ on his side of the board.

Was he even aware? Mama pressed a thumb against her teeth after putting the car on cruise control, able to lax herself for a moment before she was under attack again. In the form of courteous words while the falling snow dulled Mr. Fukumori’s attention into a stand-still, and his forehead was pressed against a window.

“Nature is climaxing tonight,” he said, so simply before his teacup kissed his lips.

“There are better words to use.” Mama bit back a smile, but Mr. Fukumori caught it when he glanced at the rearview mirror. “But yes, I can agree. It seems that Nature is enjoying itself.”

“We can take a leaf from that.”

A good chuckle, a poor pun or joke or...whatever Mr. Fukumori intended it to be. Mama wasn’t sure, but she laughed anyway. Sort of joining into the craze that awoken an inner-child that had been locked away for so long in Mr. Fukumori’s heart, and he commended her for the choice of tea. Standard green tea was indeed the best, but a hint of honey did so many wonders to how enticing the smell and the taste was. Mr. Fukumori took a hearty sip, not a care in the world if Mama laced poisons or a drug into the nostalgic concoction. But then again, Mama wasn’t a _Club._ She was a _Heart,_ and she wore it under her sleeves. Careful to keep her wrists hidden with every turn of the wheel.

“I have teacups in the cabinets. I can do a trade.” Mama swerved around a carcass, laid like a platter against the street.

A deer, rigid and crusted with snow. Vultures tore into the abdomen, beaks deep with what looked like a gunshot wound. Masqueraded in the middle, wings batting away stray beaks and talons, was deep-blue crow. Handsome, feathers trickling down to its stubby legs and hugged around its beak. Eyes, a soft brown, when Mama turned her head to inspect the carnage. Just then, the crow rose its beak. Splattered with blood and tidbits of an intestine when its eyes locked on Mama’s. Bleak like a tunnel and it bore into a place called the soul.

Calm, calculative, graded Mama by her eyes alone and how delicious it’d be to rip one out for dessert. Mama swept her gaze back to the front of the road, gas-pedal pressed and the BMW sped away from the forensic design. Of organs plucked and swallowed, an animalistic instinct indulged by a warm, plump belly in the climax of winter. The crow, bent over with a _Full Metal Jacket_ round clasped in its beak.

Back in the car, Mama repeated her earlier statement now that Mr. Fukumori’s attention was pried from the falling snow and back onto her, gazing at her reflection and the flicker of her eyes in the rearview mirror. It didn’t take a ponder before Mr. Fukumori had his answer, and his gaze was rather fond when it fell upon his beloved teacup.

Tender, his touch was, when he cradled the cup against his palms. “I like this one.”

“Broken as it is?”

“Just like my body,” was Mr. Fukumori’s response. He took another sip. “This cup holds everything I’ve done before, and the things I’ll do now. A new cup wouldn’t feel the same. Don’t you agree?”

Mama couldn’t quite agree. Cups were replaced as soon as they were chipped in her household, fear that the jagged edges would serve a more sinister purpose if held in the wrong hands. Too many times, it happened and…

Mama knew that Mr. Fukumori would never do anymore to his cup than it could do for him. Every chip was weathered down, giving the edges a softer touch that otherwise. The cup was made out of wood, more durable than otherwise. Those features alone eased Mama’s heart, but her facade cracked into two and slid down. An old fear, _an old ghost,_ hovered by her shoulder. She didn’t have to turn around to know who the ghost was because Mama knew this touch all too well.

Her mother wasn’t a good mother, by any means.

“Oops, I ran out of tea,” came Mr. Fukumori’s voice. The warmth and how gently he expressed himself in mock-surprise when he gazed down at his neighboring teapot reeled Mama away from her thoughts. She didn’t feel a ghost by her shoulder, but a warm hand instead. Mr. Fukumori had reached over and gave a thankful pat on her shoulder for the delicious drink. He wanted to repay her, genuinely. No false hopes, no flattery to make Mama feel better about herself, but an honest comment that seemed so strange considering the strife that was supposed to be between them.

_How can I be your enemy when it felt like we’re friends?_

This wasn’t friendship. Friendship, defined by normal terms, meant trust and association with another individual or more. This supposed trust was a mutual agreement, reached out by Mr. Fukumori first when he called in from a grimy phone in an undisclosed location with the area code erased from the record books. This association was more or less a business requirement, Mama being the _Pakhan_ to her family and Mr. Fukumori as an advisor for his own. They weren’t friends, but this was probably the closest relationship akin to being friends. As much as Mama was a foreigner to the concept, Mr. Fukumori appeared to have lived it all his life. As the _King_ in the situation, he had to be so that arranged deals were done without a complaint.

_Two can play in this game,_ Mama mused. There were advantages to going second, and Mama hadn’t spent the last three months hopping to Mr. Fukumori’s side of the checkerboard for nothing.

“You can thank me with a bet,” she suggested. Mama steadied herself, one with the control of her car when she crossed over a bridge and entered the steaming bowl of borscht that was St. Petersburg. “I’m willing to wager my best man if you’re willing to wager yours.”

Mr. Fukumori leaned forward in his seat. An old glint in his eyes, hazed by the brief blindness in his stare. “This sounds like a gamble.”

“I’ve held up my end of the deal, so I think you can handle mine.” As sweet as her smile was, as bright and tasty as her tea was, this was a game that Mr. Fukumori wished he didn’t have to engage in alone. Stuck as a touristy-grandpa in foreign territory, he should’ve seen the red flags sooner. But no, Mama lured him in the only way she knew how. From the stomach, to the heart, and to the brain. She had him locked. This wasn’t a game of checkers anymore.

“Your proposal, then?” Mr. Fukumori caught a glint about a hundred yards away from where the car was. So tiny, so miniscule, he could’ve mistaken it as a flashing star. What gave the glint away was how Mama also looked at it, a half-smile on her face before she waved her hand at her passenger window.

A hundred yards away, stationed at the top of a building and hunkered under a makeshift tent against the cold, Guildenstern caught the signal. Mama had a nonchalant wave, appeared as if she was flicking away dust particles that obscured her view of St. Petersburg’s nightlife. But it wasn’t as subtle as Mama thought it’d be, and Guildenstern pursed her lips before they could sink into a frown instead. Shaking her head, fragments of snow spilling out from her hair, Guildenstern slid her body away from the building’s edge. Her finger retreated from the trigger as soon as she ducked her scope away when Mama’s BMW disappeared into the thickets of a concrete jungle.

Disappointed that Mr. Fukumori caught a glimpse of his down demise when the goal was for a silent kill if cooperation was at Hell or high water.

 

There was nothing like coming back to the place where it all began. A memory, a heart. The beginning, this was a start. When a concrete jungle peeled back its branches, and home was on the other side. Dressed with plumes of indigo, towering orange mixed with beige. An iconic center to what people usually thought about when asked about Russia. It was beautiful, it was strong, it was a fortress that no other could stand before it. And yet, Viktor tugged on Makkachin’s leash and led her up the steps to the church.

Winter had finally settled in like a dove, and a bright blue scarf accentuated the highlights in Viktor’s cheeks because of the cold. Red, like the color of Makkachin’s leash when she chewed on the ends and borked. The tips of her paws practically danced across the slick concrete, and she face-planted into the ground. Protected by the furry scruff of her beard, and when Viktor lunged forward and caught her in his arms.

Makkachin licked the scruff of Viktor’s neck, exposed to _General Frost,_ and her breath flushed Viktor’s skin. The fluff of her fur tugged a laugh from Viktor, and he teased Makkachin’s stomach and back with scratches. Makkachin borked until she was too loud, and Viktor pressed a finger against his lips to calm her down. Even so, he sneaked a few scratches. Here and there, a little something for Makkachin’s tail to wag about when she followed at Viktor’s heels.

Her paws skipped across the steps with the lightest touch, fleeting footwork on her part. Ears flopped up and down in her endeavor while her nose skimmed the top of the concrete. Frost collected over the top, and she shook it off. Lifted her snout whenever Viktor turned his head back, a crook of a smile curved over his lips. The softest eyes for Makkachin only, and the poodle wagged her tail in response. When she and Viktor made it to the top of the steps, without a bent to disturb their feet, Viktor gazed up to the Valley of Kings.

Marble figures etched over white brick loomed from their perches, eyes glossed over by the chiseled hands that bore them. Expressionless, though lips protruded in disapproval. Lifeless, but every gesture of the hands slammed a lecture past Viktor’s ears when the wind picked up, fluttered his bangs in the air. A student before his line of masters, and everyone had their back turned against him.

A man, fitted in robes with a curtain by the part of his legs, stood in judgement with a balance in one hand and a sword rested down the length of his femur. Gruff with a beard, gaze as ominous as his saintly neighbors. Stared down like a judge, noting if Viktor was worthy to walk inside the walls of the church. It was simply a building. Take away the statues, idols, candles, stained glass, and symbols of the prayer. Left behind were walls and a ceiling to encompass all those who came inside and stood in silence. It was simply a building and yet at times, one needed access to even come inside. Viktor’s breath curled up like smoke, a sigh darkened the colors behind his eyes.

Makkachin borked in his defense. She stomped her paw at where she stood and leered up to the gatekeeper. She pleaded her testimony for the deaf ears, fixed in time while words were sharpened against Viktor. Her body twisted and turned as she paced, and Makkachin shook her fur to this nonsense. Viktor had always gone to this church, whether for reflection or to clear his mind. What right did anyone have, statue or not, to take that away from him?

_Who?_

Makkachin demanded an answer as sharply as her growl heated her breath. What right was there to judge when these saints had committed their own wrong. Vastly different, but the pain was still the same. And yet, people still respected them and gave them a patronage upon the marble ledge of a pristine church. For all to admire, not one to condemn. Why seek for perfection when every foot or paw sought for repentance for what they have done?

Viktor tugged on Makkachin’s leash, finger pressed against his lips. A wayward glance, back and forth, and he coaxed for Makkachin to ease her judgement. Makkachin buried her face into Viktor’s hand when he crouched down, gently pawed at his feet. She bumped her nose against Viktor’s cheek, licking at the spot until a hitch of breath puffed from between Viktor’s teeth. His fingers, caught around a knot in Makkachin’s fur, sank a bit deeper and eased Makkachin with scratches. She wiggled herself away from those touches and tugged at her leash. Nose pointed to the front doors of the church, and a soft bork compelled Viktor to follow her.

Viktor adjusted his engagement ring with the edge of his thumb before stepping into the light. Emerged from the shadows overlooking the church, Viktor pushed back the redwood doors and came inside. Loosening his scarf, Viktor draped it casually over his shoulder as Makkachin scratched at her leash. A _click,_ and the line fell away from her collar.

Makkachin dropped her nose to the red carpet and sniffed around. One of her borks echoed like a gunshot, ricocheted off the support beams above their heads. Where a stained glass blemished colors from God’s palette, and Makkachin pounced on all of the yellow spots. Tail wagging, and Viktor’s eyes followed as Makkachin traced a peculiar pattern across the floor. Her paws timid with every step until she dropped her full-weight into every paw, and she got a bit quicker with every round. She spun around, head jerked in every which direction, before she borked for Viktor to join her.

A slight whistle between Viktor’s teeth sounded more enticing than a humble bork. The rhythmic shuffle of Makkachin’s paws increased tenfold when she leapt into Viktor’s arms, as if a hundred Makkachins spilled from behind and under pews. A squirming ball of fluff and fur in Viktor’s inviting arms when Makkachin pressed her paws against his chest in a moment of fun and thrill. Even in these soft moments, where they could hold onto each other for hours at a time, there came a point where Makkachin accepted that Viktor had to go. It was inevitable, living with a human who had places to go and sights to see and thoughts to spill from a thumb.

When Viktor led her to a familiar spot for her to stay, Makkachin stayed. Her bottom planted on the spot, and she rested her head against the carpet. Ears perked when Viktor mentioned that he would be staying here for a little longer than last time. The fronts of his shoes rubbed together, a brief glance and Viktor met Makkachin’s gaze. She whined and rolled her head to the side, but Makkachin’s tail wagged back and forth. Aware of an odyssey, a spiritual journey, donned over the back of Viktor’s shoulders when he turned and journeyed to the heart of the church.

Pauses between every step he took, moments of realization when his pupils dilated over images that only he could see. Part to his lips, Viktor tightened his hands into fists. His nails dug into the centre of his palms. In his imagination’s eye, there was a figure sitting in one of the pews. Arms draped over the shoulder before the figure, _Viktor’s Id,_ turned his head with a smirk for a gaze. Almost identical to Viktor, except for the ruffled shirt and tie. Collar popped open, exposed the cut of his collarbone. As if the Id had retreated away from a heated session just to meet Viktor here, where the duality of Man was split between the saints and sinners.

His Id wasn’t evil, merely honest in his advances to the truth. That reflection in his eyes shone a face back to Viktor, and it wasn’t his own. But of Yuuri, red and panted over crumpled bed sheets. Ring forgotten on a nightstand, or did Viktor think about that when he heard a whisper of a moan in his left ear. Of a fluttery breath, hitched before a mounted tease before Yuuri could melt between the lines that defined him.

Viktor shook his head, tried to clear his mind of such thoughts. His Id cocked his head, bangs slipped over his eyes, and gestured with a finger for Viktor to come. Soon, the finger turned slim and its owner morphed before Viktor’s eyes. Instead of seeing himself with a devilish grin, he saw Yuuri. Bangs crept over the same eyes and wrinkled under a smile that shone like a thousand suns.

_He’s not real._ Viktor walked past the pew. Eyes darted straight-ahead and ignored how inviting imaginary-Yuuri seemed. Viktor caught a glimpse of Yuuri’s appearance through his peripheral. Out of sheer curiosity and nothing more. His heart threatened to burst when this Yuuri reached out a hand, fingers folded to feel Viktor’s touch against his own. A smile riding low on those familiar lips and how they burned every portion of Viktor’s body when he felt them from a distant memory.

_You’re not real._

Sunlight trickled through the stained glass, depicted images of ten fish feeding a hundred mouths. Faces on a boat, reeling in their fishing nets, as a Prophet amongst men walked across the turbulent seas without a drop entering the comfort of His sandals. Of a benevolent, kind Soul with children in His arms and a breath of life in their eyes.

These illustrations were the cornerstone to every color that skimmed over Viktor when he walked down the aisle. One step closer to the altar, dressed in white tablecloth and with brass fixtures along the surface. A few candles burned brightly where the red carpet turned to brick, and Viktor’s footsteps echoed louder when he crossed to the left of the church’s heart.

A rosary of sorts slipped down from his sleeve and into his hand. Every bead moved with the slowness of his thumb with every step Viktor took. Painfully aware that his Id didn’t skip a beat, for it waited for him with a new fantasy. More scandalous than the last, and it took a moment for Viktor to swallow his saliva. A switchblade materialized where his rosary once was. Sharp at every edge, the tip coated with a residue that tickled every bit of laughter from imaginary-Yuuri. Leaned against the wall, his own concoction of horrors in his hands and just about nothing else on him. Left nothing for the imagination, but this was Viktor’s imagination.

He struck first. He sliced into the empty air just as imaginary-Yuuri crossed past him, the lead for this dance. A free-flowing gown, ribboned with black and red, materialized over Yuuri’s skin. Loose, for the dagger he unsheathed from his person. Loose, for a sleeve slipped and exposed an ivory shoulder that tickled a corner of Viktor’s desires. Loose, for the real Yuuri held a peculiar aversion towards tight-clothing because it kept him from what he was best at.

Imaginary-Yuuri flipped a dagger over his hand, caught it with a fellow swoop and lunged. Viktor blocked, twisted his blade onto its duller side when he kept it steady. A prickled rose between his teeth, sliced into his lips when he spat it out. One of imaginary-Yuuri’s fingers trailed down the length of Viktor’s arm, cutting every bit of restraint that had held him back. Viktor’s grip loosened over his switchblade.

It rattled like his rosary, but the touch was anything but a rosary. The handle, velvet wood curved specifically for his grip alone, was the only touch that mattered to Viktor now. When imaginary-Yuuri twisted his blade and jabbed at Viktor’s heart, Viktor twirled in his role for this tango. Sidestepped and wrapped his arm over Yuuri’s chest, pulled him close. Nowhere for Yuuri to escape now when he caught Viktor’s gaze. Whether imaginary or not, Viktor couldn’t see himself doing this to any other person. For once, he listened to his Id.

There was no one around when Viktor caved for his untamed heart, and he slit his Id’s throat for good measure. No blood splattered onto Viktor’s clothes, but he felt the spray when he closed his eyes and gutted every inch of imaginary-Yuuri with a deft thumb. To kill his Id, this desire from the outside-in, Viktor’s rosary rocked back and forth and smacked the bottom of his hand. Until there was nothing left in his arms but empty air, of where imaginary-Yuuri originally was. A mere spectre in the back of Viktor’s imagination and dead at the edge of his breath.

To steady his breathing was pointless now when the rosary in Viktor’s hand, indeed, looked like one now. Reality firm on his mind, like the heartbeats ticking by his ear, Viktor reminded himself of why he was here. There was more he had to say now than before, and Viktor crushed his rosary between his fingers. Before he could lose control again, Viktor walked.

The thuds of his footsteps echoed in the back of his mind like a brass church bell, rocking to the rhythm of an old funeral hymn. Viktor’s legs shook, trembled as if he had murdered a good friend. In a sense, he did. Imaginary or not, he killed his friend, lover, and his fiancé at the same time. Not even his mind could ration an alternative truth out from that.

There was a candle, dying amongst its brethren. Small, barely burned under the coils of smoke trailing from the neighbors it was told to not covet. Spare matches along the side of the candle table, Viktor held an end near a healthy candle until the wood smoked and burned. Just before the lonely candle in the corner died, Viktor breathed it new life. The withered wick blossomed like a bud under his hands when Viktor cupped the top of the candle. Smoke plumed upwards, like an offering from yesterday. A sweet, cinnamon-scent wafted off from the candle, danced within Viktor’s senses when he blew out his match and prayed before the flickering flames.

His bangs, half-covered his eyes, when he mumbled quiet words. Only he could hear and for anyone listening in Heaven. If his mother was there, an angel amongst her sisters and brothers, Viktor hoped that she could hear his voice. There was so much he wanted to say, so much that this silence hovering over him wasn’t enough for every apology he had yet to murmur. His mother, the sole reason why a Bratva was branded against his heart, rested her cheek on Viktor’s shoulder. She wasn’t here, physically, but sunlight filtered through the stained glass behind Viktor and warmed him with a tender touch. Viktor imagined his mother and her wings, casted over him like a blanket. He felt like a child again, seeking guidance for what only he could control.

What could he do? What would anyone do in his situation, where emotions colored his better judgment?

Viktor’s shuffles against the brick floor marked the stillness of the church before he sat himself at one end of a Reconciliation Booth. The velvet curtains were pulled over, enclosing him in the shadows he had to endure for a moment. A deep breath followed by a sigh. He loosened his collar, loosened the tie he wore underneath. The article popped off from around his neck, and Viktor twisted the fabric between his fingers to keep himself from digging into his own palm. His rosary, squished in his other hand, before Viktor sat up straight and spoke into the darkness.

“Hello, Father.” Light, cheery. Everything that wasn’t Viktor when he looked into his conscious and found blood, splattered across his hands.

“Hello, my Child.” Father Yakov, seated on his side of the Reconciliation Booth, fiddled through his weathered bible and read a small verse to ease Viktor’s mind. Viktor tipped his head back, touching the wall behind him. He closed his eyes and simply thought of Father Yakov’s voice. How soothing it was, like a gentle boat rocking back and forth across a bathtub in a childhood. When the bible shut softly from the other side, Viktor opened his eyes slowly. “Shall we begin?” Father Yakov asked.

Viktor’s hand trembled when he pressed his rosary against his heart. He steadied his breaths, counted how many seconds it took before he needed to breathe again. It gave him courage when he waltzed with the Devil’s maker, dressed in black and red to mock everything Viktor had built himself to be. It gave him strength when an idea came to Viktor’s mind. If he died in this confessional booth, every secret sewn to his heart would be taken to the grave with him. But the very thought ached him, horribly. More-so than a gunshot wound or the stabbing pain he felt in his shoulder, stitched and cleaned from a few days before when a blade sunk into his flesh and bone.

“To the Father,” Viktor began, sketching a mini-cross onto his forehead with his nail.

“To the Son.” Father Yakov rested his hand over his heart. A firm grasp to the guidance sitting on his shoulders and this time of help.

“To the Holy Spirit. Amen.” Viktor clapped his hands together. His trembling stopped, for now. He blinked a few times to test the waters before slouching comfortably in his seat for once. Thumbing through every rosary bead as he spoke, Viktor recited the opening words for the _Act of Reconciliation_ and bowed his head.

“It has been seven days since my last confession of sins.” Viktor bit the bottom of his lip. His heart ached for the last time, how light-hearted it was compared to the weights on his shoulders now. Father Yakov heard the burden in Viktor’s tone and adjusted in his seat. The creaks of wood from the other side grounded Viktor to reality when his mind dared to slip.

“What ails you?”

Viktor rested his chin over his knuckles, words perched upon his lips. Then, when he shifted his weight, his engagement ring slipped. Down it went, bounced over the bottom of the confessional booth and rolled out and onto the floor. A glint of silver, dropped like the first bits of rain. The _clack_ echoed by Viktor’s ears when he pulled his fingers apart from each other. He leaned out, stooped down, and scooped his ring back into his hand. The delicate snowflake, sculpted on top of where a diamond would be, was pressed against Viktor’s lips.

He thought of Yuuri. The _real_ Yuuri. The Yuuri that wasn’t tied to an organization, and the very same Yuuri that enamored his heart from the beginning. From when they met one another roughly six years ago, where Fate could’ve pulled her strings so that they wouldn’t met. But they did, and something beautiful spilled from there. Like blood from a wound, but happier. A bleeding heart, but dripping blood so that the love could be shared to the other. Viktor kept this in mind when he cleared his throat.

“For when God spoke and said, _‘Thou shalt not kill’,_ my hands and soul had very much done the deed.” Viktor slipped his engagement ring back over his finger, and it glowed when it was at home again.  “I have only killed in my mind.”

“I see.” Father Yakov fingered through his bible for a verse, about to speak. However, Viktor apologized for he had more to say. He asked if Father Yakov could simply listen to him. This wasn’t a typical confession like the ones from before, and Viktor twisted his ring around his finger when he heard Father Yakov sigh. Wouldn’t it be better if they could speak, face to face? No, it’d only influence Viktor’s tongue to speak of lies instead. Viktor reassured Father Yakov that he was speaking of the truth right now and always had been. For just once, could this be a heart-to-heart conversation instead?

“I want to hear your thoughts,” Viktor said. A small smile curved over his lips.

Three, simple words. _“I will listen.”_

“Father, is it possible to change our fate?”

Beyond the confessional booth, outside of the church and near the foot of a statue, a mother bird returned to her nest with a twig in her beak. Her children were gone. Lost. She laid her twig in the centre of her home and hopped around. The ruffle of her wings stirred distress until she heard their faint cheeps, nestled on top of a poodle’s head. Their tiny wings flapped weakly, and Makkachin borked at the mother bird.

“Our fate has already been predetermined by Heaven,” Father Yakov began.

Makkachin slowly eased onto her hind legs when the mother bird fluttered down from her nest. Her children, naked to the cold, nested deeply into the tuft of Makkachin’s fur. Screamed when their mother coaxed them out from the warmth, but they had to go home. Makkachin slowly shook her head, and a chick surfaced from her fur. Its mother carried it to the top of the nest and placed it in the farthest corner of the nest. Where the wind was blocked by a marble sword, but the chick shivered. Head hunched its feeble wing, crying for company. Its mother chirped, rubbing her beak against the chick’s body before flying down to gather the rest.

“We are either prophets to what is right--”

Every fledgling saved lightened the burden on the mother’s bird heart. As more and more of her children returned home, they kept each other warm against _General Frost._ Their tiny heads hunched together, not a peep in between them. Rejoiced when another joined the company, and the warmth increased by tenfold.

“--or, we are victims to our lies.” Father Yakov’s thumb grazed over a rusted wedding ring. Tarnished to his touch, a reminder he still kept in the height of his vocation.

Makkachin’s nose gently nudged the broken figure of a baby bird. Its head twisted, bent to a dark degree. Its beak, slightly agape during its last scream. How it flapped its wings to save itself before a bitter end, and its mother landed beside it. The mother bird sheltered her child with her wing, eyes fixed on how the chest neither rose or sank. Makkachin shuffled her body, a shield against the cold for the mother bird mourned with a bittersweet song. The very same song that she had sung countless times when her chicks were simply eggs under her. Her body never forgot the amount she laid. The mother bird nudged her child with her beak. Soft chirps to coax them to wake up.

“If I were to change my fate,” Viktor said, “what would happen?” Though he couldn’t see Father Yakov, Viktor imagined that he was staring at Viktor with a firm frown. Not out of disapproval, but of curiosity of what Viktor meant by that. Father Yakov didn’t ask for elaboration, and it only piqued Viktor’s interest when a response eventually came out.

“We were born with free-will. We can reject what has been given to us, but it’ll continue to come back until we accept it.”

“Do I have to accept it?” Viktor narrowed his eyes at the silence between him and Father Yakov. Truth be told, there was no sure-answer to the question. Several factors had to be at play, and it depended on perspective more than anything else. It was beyond what Father Yakov could formally say, and he apologized to Viktor. Through prayer, he might find an answer. Through talks with others, he might find another answer. It was best for Viktor to explore, experiment, and gather the answer for his own. Just an answer from a confessional booth might not be the most applicable to Viktor’s situation. Whatever it was, but Father Yakov had a hunch.

He didn’t say, out of respect and privacy. Viktor thanked him. When the confession was over and Viktor stepped out from the booth, he waited for Father Yakov to emerge. Father Yakov, worn like a chiseled statue of his own design, wished for Viktor the best.

“There are some things in this life that we have to experience for ourselves if we want to find the answer.” Taken by surprise, Father Yakov patted Viktor’s back, quite awkwardly, when the younger embraced him.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Viktor mumbled into Father Yakov’s shoulder. His engagement ring shone as bright as the morning sun, as sweet as the sleek silver around his finger, and as heavy as the new thoughts weighed in Viktor’s mind. He could see where the head of a gun began and where the tail ended when he flexed one of his hands, stretched his fingers as far as he could before he pulled them back together into a fist.

 

There was this side to Viktor that only his mother used to know about when December eighth slipped about.

How Viktor’s feet crunched through treks of snow, flakes littered throughout his hair with a simple shake of his head. His pink nose softening into its usual color when he tapped the tips of shoes by the doorway. Fragments of ice fell away, shattering against the floor before he came inside. Where in the warmth, a few tunes played on a record-player in the living room and Viktor used to ask his mother if she would like a dance. Their hands arched in the air, their feet danced in circles before Mama Nikiforov twirled her son in her arms. Her hair tickled the crooks of Viktor’s shoulders, and her kisses tickled his skin.

Replace the snow with loose rocks that somehow wiggled themselves into Viktor’s shoes. The loose flakes that had filtered his hair during his youth were forgone with the rush of a wind. From a passing train when Viktor slipped through a secret door down the length of a train tunnel, and he felt the ground tremble beneath his feet. The warmth from a home now came from the _Heart’s_ headquarters after Viktor deposited a train ticket in an open, cardboard box by the front door.

His scarf slipped from around his neck, just as Mama uncorked a hefty bottle of bourbon. The wooden cork flew across the room, caught in between Viktor’s fingers before it knocked a bruise against his neck. Mama raised her hands in surrender, a harmless apology on her part, before she gestured for Viktor to take a seat by the makeshift, bar counter. A bowl of sweets slid across the wood.

A Christmas tree stood in the middle of the room, ribboned and decked with bulbs and little trinkets from Alexa’s last visit when Mama carried him on her shoulder. How Mama stood on her tippy toes so that Alexa could place a flash bomb at the very top of the tree. Where down below and curled over the branches were retired rental guns, polished and painted over with the holiday cheer. Rubber switchblades from the practice room nestled between regular ornaments and reflected off of bullets tied together by a string from someone’s sewing kit.

Stockings hung from around the library-hole in the wall, bulged with gifts. Ranged from commonplace items like cards or little treats to a guide on caring for a switchblade and other goodies. It was evident of how important the upcoming holiday was for Mama, having painted the headquarters over like it was merely an extension to her home. A little bit of everything had come together, dusted-off and wrapped with more than enough color to brighten someone’s mood. Like the leaning tower of cigarettes near a candle memorial of Mama’s husband, each striped with a design more outlandish than the one under it. A chipped teacup with a steaming bit of tea acted as the smoke when Viktor passed by it and leaned against the counter to meet with Mama on this chilly evening.

Covered in holiday wrappings from when Mama opened her gift early. The bourbon from Guildenstern, judging by the sleek signature over a homemade card. Viktor bent down and loosened his shoelaces and retied them again. Enough time for Mama to clean up her mess and tuck Guildenstern’s card into the inside of her vest jacket. Patted the spot for safekeeping. Silent exchange of thanks when Viktor lifted his attention back to Mama, and she had a gift for him in return.

Viktor closed his eyes when Mama told him to do so as she pulled Viktor’s fingers back. As gently as she could as a smooth firearm nestled itself into Viktor’s grip. Eyes still closed, he tapped his thumbs against the handle. Almost taken back by the clear-cut designs underneath his skin.

“You can open your eyes.” A smile wiggled itself into Mama’s voice, and her chest swelled with pride. Viktor blinked for a few seconds when color rushed across his skin. A prized beauty from the southern edge of Europe gleamed in Viktor’s hold. Fragile as a dove, but dangerous as a scorpion. Even without a stinger, the Colt held a sinister edge.

Unyielding. One false move, not written in its part, and the Colt could easily subdue Viktor if he allowed it to. His grip was steady, calmed an untamable monster that could smoke from its barrel for days. The head, pointed towards a shot glass when it appeared on the wooden counter, didn’t recoil when Viktor’s fingers trailed down its neck. Every groove traced under his touch hitched over the inscriptions drawn on the left side. Information: _Where did it come from, who bought and sold it, and what was its name?_

The handle felt Italian from how the crisscrossed markings had a homemade touch, jogging a glass of wine and a pastrami sandwich into Viktor’s mind. He picked up the velvet cloth that came with the Colt and polished his fingerprints off from its skin. It might’ve been his imagination, but Viktor heard a whisper of a purr from the barrel. Already more than just a stranger, but a handler that the Colt could grow to trust.

Before the Colt was entrusted in Viktor’s hands, four others had touched it as intimately as Viktor had done now. The first was its maker, unbranded to keep their identity a secret. A bottle of brewsky as their blood of choice, the bare bronze and illicit affairs sewn to the flesh crafted this beauty here. A killer in the making, a queen to those who handled her. The second was the package-sender, dolled up a case for the Colt’s overnight shipment. Clothed her with a gown fit for a warrior, but a bed sweet for a lover when it cradled the Colt’s joints. Swayed her to sleep despite the turbulent seas and the underground network of thieves stretched to the heights of Russia. The third set of hands came from a _Club,_ inspected the Colt and counted off a few magazines to wean her over from bloodthirst. The fourth and final hands came from Mama when she had unearthed the Colt from her slumber once more and parted her between Viktor’s hands.

Her touch was delicate, leading Viktor’s fingers to where they were meant to be. Advice fluttered from Mama’s lips, she glanced up every now and then. Watched as Viktor nodded along, a few questions slipped in occasionally. They seemed rather straightforward, the answers, and Viktor smiled and reassured himself that he could tend to the Colt. This wasn’t his first time with a firearm, but that deter Viktor from Mama’s words. She offered a different perspective, an alternate mindset for Viktor to focus on because he was now dealing with a creature, unbounded by the rules tethered to all the rentals in the Bratva.

Viktor’s finger laid loosely over the Colt’s trigger. Not a round inside the Colt, but Mama stepped away with a flourish. The cascading ponytail coming down from her bun rose in the air for a moment in the swiftness of her steps. Eyes locked on Viktor’s target when he pulled the trigger.

A snap kicked the back of the Colt, and a puff of air trailed from the end of her barrel. If a round had been inside, the shot glass that Viktor had aimed at would’ve shattered into thousands of pieces. Enough to send shards flying to cut an eye but instead, Viktor felt the raw strength of a shot that didn’t kill. More-so than he thought, his heart hung from the edge of his sleeve. Enamored by the first draw.

“Her name’s _Gypsy.”_ Mama’s voice filtered back into Viktor’s reality. She underlined the Colt’s nickname with the tip of her fingernail. _Gypsy_ shone right above _Nikiforov_ in a cursive signature. Bold, classy, and carved with a violet pigment to accentuate her nature. “She’ll be your partner but most importantly, she’s going to be your friend. Treat her good, she’ll reward tenfold.”

Experience did more than dictate Mama’s words, but it was a truth than any mafioso would learn if they hadn’t already. Not just with weapons, but with each other when the battlefield called for it.

“What about _Bertolt_ and _Reiner?”_ Viktor placed _Gypsy_ back into her case before pulling the ends of his suit jacket back. His holsters, wedged over the joint of hips, held old men. Grumpy, smoking, and loud with a banger of firearms that people didn’t sell anymore. Except for a quick antique meant to sit behind a kissing glass, but _Bertolt_ and _Reiner_ had a gambler’s streak between them. They would break out of the kissing glass with just their thoughts alone.

“They’ll understand in time.” Mama pulled up a case with a cotton-finish inside. Soft to the touch, the perfect resting place for a pair of retired guns that did nothing but bicker in the ten years they were under Viktor’s care.

_Bertolt,_ a rusted pistol with a distinct whistle, was lifted out from his holster and laid across the counter. Tarnished and bits of gray still streaked from his youth, _Bertolt_ would frown if he could when Mama picked him up by the barrel. Her eyes skimmed over the blemished fingerprints that had bled into _Bertolt’s_ skin. The usual marks for a rental of his age. _Reiner,_ the quick Ruger and Viktor’s first line of defense, fidgeted when lifted from his holster. The narrow tip of his barrel scanned the immediate vicinity, attention locked on his partner. _Bertolt_ rocked back and forth in Mama’s hand. Softened up to her touch, but _Reiner_ was as stiff as a board.

Mama whistled quietly when _Reiner_ burned against her palm. As quick as he was to anger, as docile _Reiner_ became when he was tucked to bed in a familiar case and _Bertolt_ was right next to him like always. Two comrades, separated by an inch-wide divider that prevented them from slipping into each other’s beds when Mama closed their case and tucked them into the back rental compartment under the counter.

Two shots of bourbon were poured on Mama’s behalf. To drink alone was bittersweet, so Viktor raised his glass slowly and clinked it against Mama’s. He took a sip while Mama finished her glass. Viktor set his shot aside like a chess piece while Mama rested it against the wooden counter as if she spent another night with a loose-knit of friends. If she _could_ call the other leaders that for their hearts thumped as one in a territory with the pretty name of St. Petersburg. Mama poured herself a second shot just as Viktor finished his first. _Gypsy_ loosely fitted between his fingers. Her black polish reflected hints of violet in Viktor’s eyes.

“It’s not my birthday.” Viktor glanced elsewhere as the bourbon burned the back of his throat. His face hidden by a mop of bangs, and Mama reached out and curved them behind Viktor’s ear. Viktor couldn’t meet Mama’s gaze until her fingers slid down his neck and touched the tip of his shoulder. She asked if he was healing alright, and Viktor finally met her gaze.

“That was a careless mistake on my part, and you became a casualty.” Mama nursed her bourbon when Viktor gave her permission to inspect. Her fingers trailed over Viktor’s knife-wound with gentle pokes. Through the suit, Mama felt Viktor’s stitches. She poked a little harder than she meant to, having to feel through a bandage patch that kept the stitches dry and undisturbed for the meantime. Careful to follow her train of thought, but Viktor interrupted. A brief apology between his teeth when he laid _Gypsy_ against the counter.

“Is there a reason why…?” Viktor’s voice trailed off, realized how rude he must’ve sounded right about now. He should’ve been grateful, honored that Mama took time from her schedule to order Viktor something that he could call as his own. However, there was a knot building at the edge of Viktor’s heart every time he glanced down at _Gypsy._ A weapon of _Gypsy’s_ design was not going to sit aside and collect dust on a countertop after a few shots on a firing-range once a year. _By her own free-will,_ Viktor added under his breath when _Gypsy_ sashayed to the rhythm of her deadly allure.

Mama had one of those smiles of a proud curve sliced over her lips when someone had caught-on to her little game. Even without the rules or introductions, Viktor had finally moved his checker piece after Mama quietly marched her soldiers across the battlefield. She moved her red piece up one space.

“A single call can take you to the other side of the world.” Mama filled Viktor’s glass and topped it off with a thin trickle of bourbon running down the side of the glass. “I thought it better for you to have something more reliable at your fingertips than a rental.”

She bumped her shot against Viktor’s. A slosh of bourbon spilled over the countertop, and Mama slapped her hand down in laughter. The alcohol already a bleeding part of her veins when she apologized and cleaned up the mess with a rag-towel. Almost as if Mama was at home and she accidentally spilled the milk out from Alexa’s saucer-cup when her mind thought of bloodshed for a moment. For when her thoughts filtered to that of a painful memory she could never forget on one November night.

Mama blinked when blood ran down the side of Viktor’s face. No, it was part of her imagination. The blood was sweat, dripped down the length of Viktor’s forehead from his shot of bourbon. He pulled out from his suit jacket and draped it over the seat next to him. He loosened his tie, fingers fumbled at the collar for when his gloves got in the way.

Mama offered to take them off, but Viktor shook his head. His fingers pulled away, scrunched against the top of his palm when Mama reached out initially. Viktor’s bangs slipped from his ear and clouded his eyes. An ideal cover for when Mama squinted at a slight bulge around Viktor’s ring finger. The unmistakable curve of an engagement ring poked through, as fragile as the marital band glued to the stump of Mama’s ring finger.

She excused herself from Viktor’s personal boundary, eyes narrowed at the little secret literally at the end of her _Joker’s_ finger. When did it get there?

Did Yuuri propose from the back-passenger seat of a _Lexus,_ determined to have Viktor his own as much as he gave himself to Viktor. The way they used to act simply two years ago before Yuuri guttered their engagement with the tip of his knife, the cruel edge of his words when he signaled the end of their relationship. Or so, they both thought. Did Viktor propose under a starry night, bleeding out from his shoulder when he and Yuuri were alone on a bridge. Comforted by the purrs of a _Lexus_ engine when their thoughts and words weren’t enough? When their hearts laid across the table, bare and transparent for the other to poke and prod with a steak-knife and fork, one must’ve looked at the other and knew. Now, more than ever, they would never have a chance like this again, and a proposal just sort of slipped out form there.

Mama could imagine that, kept her smile to herself when Viktor situated himself comfortably. Peeled from his layers and a bit frazzled, possibly by how close his secret came to slipping. To save Viktor, Mama pretended that the last few minutes between didn’t exist, and she kissed the edge of her shot glass to keep her mouth shut. Blurred by the lines of surrealism and alcohol, Mama remembered that she didn’t quite answer Viktor’s question. Her throat burned with every word.

“With any good weapon…” A hiccup stuttered Mama’s words for a moment before she patted her chest. “A bond has to occur so you’re both aware that you’re in capable hands.”

“A mission?” Viktor lifted _Gypsy_ from the counter. She stung Viktor’s hand, and Viktor carefully eased _Gypsy_ into his left holster for safekeeping. Mama gave a curt nod, the bourbon slurred her words to an almost indecipherable degree. However, when she couldn’t put through words, Mama simply flicked a photograph to Viktor. Rummaged from the end of her sleeve, crumbled by the bend of her arms, and the corners grew weak from the bourbon that soaked through when it passed through the splash-zone.

Face-down, it slid. Straight to where Viktor propped his elbow to give his head support when his mind was warmth with a buzz. Viktor flipped the photograph over. The cheap slip fell back onto the counter with a familiar face gazing up at Viktor from the crooked corner of a pair of glasses. This was a different man from the one Viktor was used to but in the end, the smirking-figure was Yuuri.

Immortalized in mid-action, clad with black and white to save a coin from printing, Yuuri was a slip away from putting on his glasses. Where moments before, they hung loosely at the front of his collar for business. Smoke trailed past his fingers, ashed the tips with the telltale sign of gunpowder. From a trade, from a fight, or from a deal gone wrong a bruised hitched itself at the end of Yuuri’s mouth. Bulged over, a kiss from a clash of knuckles that didn’t mind a cut from a switchblade. Hanged just over Yuuri’s ear, like a pencil. A marker to _X_ a man dead.

“His name is _Eros.”_ Mama swished her shot glass back and forth. “Or, as we both know him as, _Katsuki Yuuri.”_ The name sounded so harsh over Mama’s tongue, a dark glint reflected off her eyes. Brightened by an amber pool of where the bourbon was in Mama’s attention, blurred for it was from the main star of this meeting tonight. Barren to a December eighth, when Mama called Viktor and him only. For he could fit into any denomination as he pleased, an agent to fill for his own kin in a time like this.

Viktor had only seen a sight like this from Mama from when she fought and lost her husband all on the same night, at the calm before the _Diamonds_ attacked. For every meter gained, another meter lost to another’s territory. In the midst of battle, only one gunshot mattered above the rest and Mama still carried her shot from the war today. Concealed in a pistol for the one shot Mama would ever use for a kill.

“You want me to take Yuuri out.” His voice steady, Viktor met Mama’s gaze for clarity. She didn’t tear her eyes away from him.

“Yes.” She gestured for _Gypsy,_ and Viktor pulled her out from his holster. Mama took out the cartridge and filled it with a full magazine. Loaded but unlocked, Mama twirled _Gypsy_ in her hands before handing it back to Viktor. Her grip around the barrel when Viktor pulled _Gypsy_ towards him by the handle. “In any way you deem appropriate.”

Viktor graduated in Mama’s eyes. No longer a sly permit between his fingers, but a full license to kill. The new card slipped behind Viktor’s ear as a reminder, and he had one shot between him now and for when Yuuri was on the other side of the gun. What would Yuuri do? How would he react to this betrayal? Would he know that it was coming, that these rekindled feelings between had been all in vain if a bullet could end it now? Or rather, would Yuuri bite the bullet and tell the tale?

How close was close enough for a kill if Yuuri could wiggle his knife underneath Viktor’s skin, strip away all the obligations and codes that made this bond unbearable? _Unbearable:_ no truer word crept into Viktor’s thoughts when he shied away from his begging glass of bourbon.

 

_Unbearable_ wasn’t a cursed word, but the word had its own stings when Yuuri wiggled out from his engagement ring. Silver, like the locks that kept Viktor’s beautiful mind a mystery to those who dared to meet his gaze, but Yuuri had a key and could brush the curtains away if he knew how to coax Viktor into his hands. It wasn’t hard, but it wasn’t easy. It wasn’t beautiful sometimes, but Viktor trusted Yuuri. Enough where he could lay in Yuuri’s arms and feel safe if the worst had yet to come. From the silver of the ring then, Yuuri laid it carefully over the sink counter.

Yuuri lifted his hand and hovered it under the bathroom lights. A faint glow traced over and between his fingers, bits of gold that he couldn’t touch. Not yet, anyway. But under this light and with his glasses drying off at the neckline of his collar, Yuuri’s gaze softened at where his ring used to be. An impression had already taken root. A pale band, not noticeable from afar but up-close, it was a reminder to these past few nights. Where Yuuri twisted and turned under the hotel sheets, breath hitched at the back of his throat when he feared that the engagement ring had slipped and disappeared to the edge of oblivion.

That single strip between the headboard and the mattress, where keys, credit cards, rings, and phones met their doom. No hook to fish them out, no bait to help them resurface. No love to draw them back, and Yuuri considered himself an eco-friendly faucet. If ever someone asked him what home appliance he was, that was the answer.

He poured a decent amount of love. Not too much, not too little. Just enough where he could fill a cup before shutting off the waterworks. He would fill until the water was just about to tip over the rim and make a mess. However, the precision held him back. A perfect line between destruction and harmony, _an entropic condition where chaos met its matchmaker._

If Yuuri poured more love than someone could receive, he’d run himself ragged every time. Touches wouldn’t feel the same, words would leave him breathless at a single call, and romance would just be like any other job. Show up, converse, hold hands, eat a meal, flickers of annoyance, words held back, and leave at a reasonable hour. If Yuuri didn’t pour enough love, he’d find himself in an interview. His mouth hidden behind a cup of coffee while words piled over. Questions: _what’s wrong? Is it me? Is it you? It’s you, right? See you later._ It didn’t matter if Yuuri’s faucet was broken that day, or if the water reservoir he was tapped to had run dry. It didn’t matter if someone didn’t tend to him properly, or if they clogged his faucet with a cork so that Yuuri wouldn’t leak.

So when Viktor came around, a chipped cup with a broken handle, Yuuri topped him off and expected that their paths would never cross again. Until Viktor came around a day later, a tilt to his cup, and he asked Yuuri if he could have another fill. Perhaps from there, Yuuri slowly relinquished his fear of cups and learned to appreciate them. One pour at a time.

Viktor could swish his humble cup around in circles if he wanted to. Occasionally, he’d pour his share into Yuuri’s cup and cheer under the warmth of the sun. During those moments in the day where his cup felt empty, Viktor filled his love-cup whenever he got to hear Yuuri’s voice. Whether it was about their days, cuddle-care with their poodles, or whispered messages through texts when they carried on with their daily business.

If Viktor was a cup, Yuuri imagined him as a toothbrush-cup. Always paired with what brought out its truest potential. Whatever potential that was for a cup, Yuuri had a vague idea of what that would be like for Viktor.

Such potential didn’t have to be a kill, or embody a ruthless mobster for the streets of St. Petersburg. But a more...optimized version of Viktor’s self. Perhaps more patience, understanding, care, sympathy, and all of the soft skills that were stunted under a Bratva’s green thumb. A banded-family could only do so much before the plants had to leave their nursery and were guided under another set of thumbs. Not that Yuuri was a gardener or a plant-enthusiasts, but he liked to observe how tenacious plants found their roots outside of a sheltered world. Indeed, it’d been a long time since Viktor had tasted anything else besides potting soil.

And right outside that nursery, leaves perked by the sun, Viktor could always run back into Yuuri’s arms and feel new again. Just the thought of it curved a smile over Yuuri’s face when he ran his fingers underneath a sink faucet. Wrapped around his fingers was a thin length of chain, and he rubbed soap into the nooks and crevices. Pulling the chain out, he patted it dry before slipping his ring inside.

It dangled, like a fish caught in a lure, before Yuuri fastened the necklace around his neck. The ring bumped softly against his chest, right over his tinkering heart. The shine reflected off from the bathroom mirror, and Yuuri looked up at his reflection. If no one was any wiser, it looked like Yuuri was preparing for the night of his life when he winked behind his glasses.

Hair tousled, wayward strands crept to the back of his neck and swept over his eyelashes. His boxers barely crept below the hem of his t-shirt, and it was probably one of the best feelings in the world when pants felt uncomfortable after a long day. Yuuri preferred to keep his shirts loose, for no other reason than easy access for his switchblade if he cared to sleep with it by his side. For a third night ever since he came to St. Petersburg? It wouldn’t hurt to sleep without it, especially when the rivaling Bratvas in the city had their trackers hot on his tail.

Room service next-door could easily have been a _Club,_ enacting vengeance through a courteous change in bath towels. The cameras down the hall, hacked by a _Spade_ during the commercial-breaks for an enjoyable soap opera. Every coin on the floor’s vending machine, scanned for fingerprints by an innovative _Diamond_ while on the search for a _Crunch Bar._ A lonely _Heart,_ breath fogged over a small milk box with a straw sticking out, while the red light from their sniper-point was dead on the back of Yuuri’s head when he slipped out from the bathroom. A towel hugged around his shoulders, and crossed down the bit of length from his hotel suite and checked the door’s lock.

Of course, anybody could get through it if they knew the pattern to this door. It was the same pattern for any door in the hotel, but the added challenge came in when Yuuri twisted the dead-bolt. If someone was indeed going to murder him tonight, at least they would break-in with style and wake Yuuri up so that he could clap to their work. Nonchalantly, _of course,_ while curled under two layers of sheets.

A skip to every step down the rhythm of Yuuri’s good mood when he threw the blinds over his windows. Make it tricky for a marksman. Maybe he could construct a silhouette out of pillows to throw them off, and have a bullet ready after they left their stray mark. Yuuri closed his eyes when he sat on the edge of his bed, his fingers folded over themselves when he made a barrel-point with his index fingers. A pillow, standing on the middle of the bed because it wanted to, tipped over and pressed against Yuuri’s shoulders.

The weight, the familiar touch, reminded Yuuri of Viktor. Of how he held Yuuri in his arms and maneuvered his hands into a miracle, where Yuuri could shoot and the bullet blasted through its intended-target. The whisper of Viktor’s words tugged Yuuri’s heart from a stand-still that morning by the shooting booth. The memory fitted itself neatly between the blissful days and nights that catered to an unyielding love, but the incident occurred just earlier this week. And yet, whenever Yuuri looked back on it in these private moments to himself, he could only feel the joy that came before the heartbreak.

A sigh trailed from Yuuri’s lips when his back sunk into the bed. His pillow pressed against his chest like a hug. His arms hovered over his eyes, and a smile slipped out. Pink highlighted that simple joy that used to be the jam-and-butter to every moment filtered behind a lens in his heart.

_“Oh, Yuuri…”_ He closed his eyes and feel Viktor’s lips against his own, gentle like the heartbeats that kept him together. _“He has your heart in his hands, and he doesn’t know it yet.”_

When a clogged faucet found the strength to pour again, it didn’t know when to stop. It was a good thing that Viktor had bottomless cup, because Yuuri wasn’t sure if or when he was going to turn off his tap. _This is probably how he felt after we met,_ Yuuri thought. He slipped his glasses onto his nightstand and curled up to his usual sleeping spot. His fingers drifted down the folds of the bed cover. _And now, it changed._

It wasn’t hard to notice when Viktor pulled away. Even when they hugged on the bridge after the proposal and felt complete in each other’s arms, Viktor didn’t rest his chin on Yuuri’s shoulder. Nor, did he stay as close as he had done before. There was a distance between them, too miniscule for anyone to notice. However, the touch was different from what Yuuri was used to. That night, Yuuri tilted his head just a bit to see Viktor. That was when he saw a frown settling over Viktor’s lips. Lost in thought, he didn’t notice the sudden shift from Yuuri. Too numb to know what was really happening because he was lost. Like how Yuuri was when he realized that any action on his part could hurt Viktor. Viktor admitted that he felt the same, but this pain was different. This pain was a reluctant acceptance to an ending that Viktor wished would end differently.

Inevitably, they would have to kill each other.

It was one of those rules that no one ever talked about, and relationships were typically hushed whenever work got involved. In most cases, people hooked up just to have company and to have someone to protect. But this, _all of this love culminated in Yuuri’s heart,_ was more than just a hook-up.

This was a love he could live with, even if the cost was as steep as his life. Maybe he wasn’t worried about it anymore, all of his anxieties chalked up into keeping him a hell’s distance away from Viktor for two years and what did it do? It brought out a monster that craved for something to fill a hole in his cold heart.

Viktor still had time. He could change his fate and not walk down the same path.

Yuuri checked his email on his phone. December ninth flashed over the header when he scrolled through the content. Seat _24-A_ for his plane ride back to Tokyo, purchase a ticket to get back to his prefecture, and ride a taxi back to home. That was the plan when Yuuri booked a flight through Aeroflot a few weeks ago, spur of the moment just to see Viktor’s face again and break free from the conflictions in his heart. Instead, Yuuri was here. Creases shaped into his face when he thought about his next step. To leave or not to leave? There was no turning back.

Near the bottom of his nightstand, his laptop was snuggled in a backpack and cozy under a sweater.

Tucked away in his laptop, zipped into his luggage already, were folders. Digital storage space with enough locks to drive someone up a wall to insanity. Lied within, were fragments of Yuuri’s research and the intel he gathered from the four, regional Bratvas in St. Petersburg. Dare he sneak out of bed and try to beat a _Spade_ with a shovel for more? It was late to do anything about it, but Yuuri wanted clarity. The last piece of the puzzle before he could make up his mind.

He wanted the full backstory on _Diana Petrov,_ leader of the Bratva of Hearts. Where did she come from? Who was she? Yuuri knew a lot about her insane humor through a drunken meal, but that was merely a mask for him to see. What true colors lied behind her, Yuuri only saw them in how Diana handled herself when the key to her death laid in sat of her in the form of a sweet.

Peel back the role of a _Queen,_ Diana was a mother with a child. Peel back the role of a parent, Diana was a widow. Husband perished last year. No immediate family to reach out to. Her father disappeared to South Korea. Her mother, six feet in the sea. That was everything Yuuri knew from the case report he stole from when he broke past Rosencrantz’s firewall. If this was, indeed, everything...it appeared that Yuuri wasn’t the only one who didn’t know much about the _heart_. Perhaps, Diana was one of those individuals who preferred a one-on-one conversation. Her story, sprawled across countless hours of memories and talks, and only a sparse summary to encompass all of it in the end.

Yuuri pulled his glasses off, eyebrows furrowed when he rocked his knuckles over his forehead. A release from a biting headache, and Yuuri whistled quietly between his teeth before settling down to sleep. His engagement ring laid on the bed, on an empty and cold space. He reached out to it, but his fingers froze before the touch.

A red light bled through the curtains and meandered slowly across the bed. Yuuri held his breath when the light crawled to the right of his chest and paused at the tip of his engagement ring. Just as quickly as the red had intruded into Yuuri’s safe haven, it disappeared.

As if the marksman from a building away had realized their error and promptly apologized.

 

_Unbearable_ was the first word that came to Yuuri’s mind the next morning. Having wheeled his luggage down and out from the hotel, waiting at the drop-off as taxis crept up to the driveway, Yuuri wrestled with himself when his tongue arched to form the first syllable of the world.

His fingers fumbled over the handle of his suitcase, his sleeves dangled off the ends of his wrists. Yuuri’s shoes squeaked when they rubbed against each other. The thick rubber soles rocked back and forth and from a sniper’s eye, Yuuri looked just as ordinary as anyone else that was waiting at the drop-off. Simply waited in the cold, battered by the wind, and a symphony of breaths fogged the area until a fine mist settled over the hotel a little after sunrise.

A taxi, wedged between a van and a truck, caught Yuuri’s eyes. As if a smooth knife guided the vehicle to where it needed to go, the taxi nudged itself out from a trickling line and approached the drop-off with its locks sprung up. The driver emerged, bundled from head to toe like a snowman, when he mosied on out and opened his truck. Very briefly, his eyes locked on Yuuri’s. Just behind the thick shades that encompassed the driver’s entire face, there was a familiar warmth that coaxed Yuuri to move. His fingers trailed loosely over his suitcase’s handle as he approached the taxi and its driver. A crook of a smile grew on Yuuri’s face when the wind picked up.

Just as the driver held onto his cap so that it wouldn’t blow away, the wind fingered at the loose strands of hair that yielded to its touch. Silvery strands curled against the driver’s neck, too soft for him to notice. Too familiar for Yuuri to ignore, but he held up his end of the charade because _Viktor_ held his own.

Viktor’s voice felt rough around the edges. Hoarse, as if he shouted to the edge of oblivion so that his voice wasn’t clear when Yuuri heard it for the first time. His gait sounded clunky, with a pair of hiking boots stomping against the slick concrete for traction before Viktor slipped and slid back to the driver’s door. Clutched to the handle for dear life, nearly twisted his lower back with a snap. Kept his cool, nonetheless, but he glanced at Yuuri periodically when he adjusted the rearview mirror. Just as Yuuri hopped into his seat, flushed red when the heater kissed his cheeks tenderly with a summer’s breeze. A bundle of flowers rested in the front passenger’s seat.

“For a lover,” Viktor said. His voice twisted with the gruffest accent Yuuri had ever heard. Yuuri hid his smile with a turn of his head, looking out the window and at a faint fixture carved along the supporting pillars of the hotel.

Whether Viktor caught the look or not, he adjusted the heater’s output and tugged at the collar of his jacket. Relief from the heat building up from the blazing furnace in his chest, and Yuuri felt a cackle from the flames in his own. Because his engagement ring was pressed against his skin, and his heart teased him for pretending to be shy. For pretending that he didn’t know what was going on, and for pretending that he didn’t recognize his fiancé. The feeling fluttered like a warm kiss and was as fleeting as a kiss unreciprocated when Yuuri recited perfectly from his pamphlet of lines,

“I’m heading to the…” His voice trailed off, and Yuuri searched for the email he received last night. Eyes squinted at the name of the airport that supported Aeroflot flights, and Yuuri quietly apologized before he butchered the name.

There was no saving grace, no reversal of time, or a laugh-and-prank where Yuuri joked that he was teasing. Just fifteen seconds of brutal silence fell after Yuuri struggled on the first third of the airport’s name. Not even the first third. Just getting over the tongue-twister on the third _syllable_ flickered war-flashbacks in Yuuri’s mind when he self-taught himself a few Russian phrases so he could surprise Viktor during a video chat.

The look of complete horror accompanied by a trembling lip because Viktor bit his tongue, dared not to laugh, was so reminiscent and clear in Yuuri’s mind. He had to laugh when the exact, same look wedged itself over Viktor’s face. His large shades hid the crinkles near his eyes, and Viktor sunk lower into his scarf to hide how he bit his bottom lip for strength. A smile threatened to poke up from his scarf, and Viktor bit harder until he could almost taste blood. Hands steady on the steering wheel, Viktor drove smoothly out from the drop-off, through the parking lot, and onto the street.

“You must be heading to _Sheremetyevo,”_ Viktor stressed the name, pronounced it slowly so that Yuuri could follow each syllable, “International Airport. Yes?”

“I’ll be sure to say that several times if my throat feels stuffy,” Yuuri teased. Just as Viktor swerved quickly around a motorized turtle on the road. It was even green and Viktor mumbled a few words before asking if Yuuri was alright. Having dropped the painful accent, Viktor noticed a subtle change in their interaction.

How the lines they said weren’t merely lines, but part of a genuine script written in the heart. How every bit of laughter that Viktor tugged from Yuuri echoed like a lovestruck bird when it called out to its lover in a singsong-way. Back again, the lover trumpeted with its own call before it flew into a tender embrace. Viktor felt that urge in his heart until he remembered that it wasn’t part of the script.

Right then and there, the sweet taste of a rekindled romance died in the back of Viktor’s throat. Much like how the flowers next to him withered into a grayer shade, crumbled back to reveal _Gypsy’s_ sleek handle.

Yuuri wasn’t going to the airport. If he cared to ask of where they were going, Viktor already had a response picked out. They were going to the gas station, where Viktor would park the car and go inside a little shop to pick up a pack of gum. There, the employee would send a text to Guildenstern. Against the cold, Guildenstern would steady her aim before a bullet jabbed through the back of Yuuri’s head. Escape through the shattered remnants of his jaw, and Yuuri was down quicker than a first sigh of sleep. Slumped against a window, blood sloshed onto his coat and down the floor. And when the deed was done, Viktor would drive the taxi to an old junkyard. Where Yuuri and his tin can coffin where buried where no one would find them, and a taut would be sent to the Tokyo Syndicate. Recording the entire process from the crushing of the car, to the burning of the scrap metal with Yuuri still inside, to the compression of the refined metals before they were tossed and never seen.

If Viktor hadn’t sat through the brainstorming process nearly twelve hours ago in a forgotten corner of a train station, he would’ve suspected that this was a cruel soap opera fit for a _Club._ It had the melodrama, the eccentricness of a sure-fire kill, and this was the sort of thing that a _Club_ would watch with a box of popcorn in their arms. As funny as the thought sounded at the time when Viktor heard it through a presentation, the smile quickly slipped when Guildenstern from her seat at the table. Her back faced the hundred and twenty _Hearts_ behind her before she turned her head and said the following: _It was a decent plan on paper._

Guildenstern was a former- _Club,_ and she expected no applause when the realization smacked almost everyone in the face. As part of this emergency meeting issued by Mama, drastic measures had to be done to insure that nothing like this would ever happen again. Where a breach in security would be good as dead as soon as it was performed, and no mercy should ever be given. It broke of the cardinal rules of being a _Heart,_ but Guildenstern mentioned that were exceptions to every rule. An _Ace_ from Japan robbed them of their data. Not theirs, but from the other Bratvas as well. Guildenstern relayed everything that Mama had prepped her with before this meeting began, and Guildenstern loosened her tie before her audience. Her hand hammered a crack along the glass table.

_“Kindness isn’t to be expected, but it’s a choice. Today, this is your choice.”_ With those words, the meeting met its end. December tenth was the day that Yuuri was commissioned to die.

Literally, for a few eastern organizations would pay a pretty coin to see him dead. The _Diamonds_ would take care of the profits and thumb through the money, splitting the earnings into even-envelopes so that every participating _Heart_ had his or her share. Almost six hundred thousand in rubles, tucked in those envelopes for a splurge or save.

If Mama was joking about that statement when people approached her afterwards, she wouldn’t have showcased a contract on a projector screen for every _Heart_ to read. Signed on the bottom with a messy scribble, the telltale mark of the Geondal of Fine Arts in South Korea. This was real.

Yuuri could either die by Viktor’s hand, or by someone else’s. No matter which trigger was pulled, Yuuri’s blood would always find a way to stain Viktor. Even though he protested and couldn’t bear to follow-through with the plan now.

_I wish we had more time._

 

When Viktor was twenty-two, he found someone that intrigued his mind. Yuuri was a light bulb that shone light in the darkness of Viktor’s nights.

When Viktor was twenty-three, he found someone that tickled his heart. He could never forget the laughter and the smiles and the touches and the kisses and the jokes and the tears and the… Viktor knew that he would forget these moments if he didn’t photograph them, and they were all tucked into a leather-bound album in his nightstand.

When Viktor was twenty-four, he found someone and never felt lonely. Even when an ocean and a few countries spanned before them, Yuuri found a way to send encouragements and little messages that made Viktor’s heart flutter when all he could hear was his breathing. Even with a time zone difference, Viktor and Yuuri often held their weekend dates. Poised in front of a phone or laptop screen and shared a meal while watching the other eat. Even when Viktor couldn’t reach his phone or check his emails, he’d find handwritten letters where Yuuri dabbled in Cyrillic. Viktor could barely read the words because of Yuuri’s unsteady hand, but he was so proud. Sometimes, Viktor used to trace over the words so that he could feel Yuuri’s touch when an inkling of loneliness draped over his heart.

When Viktor was twenty-five, he found someone that helped him grow. He found patience in understanding. Compassion slipped into Viktor’s daily-routine when he knew when to reach out and listen. Respect was a beloved word when certain moments required alone-time while others needed a helping-hand. Compromise could’ve been as small as figuring out who walked Makkachin on a particular morning, or something grand that left a fruitful discussion for Yuuri and Viktor to have.

When Viktor was twenty-six, he found someone that he could share his world with. He had an engagement ring ready, a flight to Hasetsu in the queue, and an entire proposal that he edited for weeks on end to find the perfect words he wanted to say. Plans didn’t go that way.

When Viktor was twenty-seven, he found someone that he could let go. He still thought about Yuuri and sometimes, he fingered through the memories sewn into his photo album. Makkachin kept Viktor company when he stroked a ring that he could never give to anyone else. Viktor had to tame his heart.

When his twenty-eighth birthday was just around the corner, Viktor saw him again. It felt strange and it wasn’t easy to fall in love again, but it wasn’t impossible. This love was cruel, but this love was kind. Fate had given him and Yuuri a second chance, to restart and fall in love.

All over again.

 

“I think I have some time,” Yuuri sighed. The side of his head rested over the side-window, Yuuri pulled out his phone and checked the time. With the current traffic and how far they were from the airport, Yuuri had about ten minutes.

Six hundred seconds to convey all the thoughts and emotions swirling in the depths of his mind. If he picked his words carefully, if he gave himself enough time to speak, everything would fall into place. However, there was one variable that Yuuri didn’t take into account. _Viktor._ Would he listen to what Yuuri had to say? Only if he phrased it in a certain way. The little faucet in Yuuri’s heart died a little, but he kept dripping into Viktor’s cup. Even though the cup was full and trickles spilled down the sides.

Yuuri watched as Viktor slowly steered his attention away from the road and onto the rearview mirror. The taxi stopped behind a line of cars. The street light was at red, and Yuuri had about ninety seconds when he caught Viktor’s eyes. Staring back at him, the faint outlines coming through the darkened shades.

“Sir, is it okay if I ask for advice?” He spoke clearly, innocently. Poised as an international tourist with scatterbrained thoughts running around in his mind. The perk of a dimple and two hugged the tops of his smile, and Viktor adjusted his gloves. His gaze centering back onto the road, and he nudged the taxi forward.

“ _Da?”_

“I think I’m in love.” Five of the simplest words in the English language. Apart, they meant little to nothing. Together, the phrase was so strong that Viktor squeezed the steering wheel until his knuckles were white. He tugged his scarf off, and it spilled onto his lap. Coiled like a snake, but unable to harm him now.

“Congratulations?” The word felt foreign over Viktor’s tongue, unsure of what Yuuri really meant behind what he said. Yuuri was in love, but the question was: _With whom?_ Was Yuuri seeing someone back in Japan before coming...The thought alone splintered the breath Viktor took in when Yuuri glanced down at his shoes and rubbed the soles together. His eyes glistened with exciting news, and Viktor wore his best smile for the occasion.

Yuuri’s smile dropped by a fraction. “I’m worried, honestly.”

“What troubles you?” The street light was green, and Viktor eased onto the gas-pedal. Half of his attention fixed onto the rearview mirror when Yuuri scratched the back of his neck. His nails sunk deeply into his flesh.

“I think my lover.. _.My fiancé, actually.”_ Yuuri tugged his necklace out from under his coat. Dangled over the chain was his engagement ring, and Viktor’s shades slipped to the edge of his nose. His teal eyes exposed, but it didn’t matter. His bangs shifted down from his forehead, and Viktor brushed them away. Instead of pretending that he didn’t notice, Yuuri rested his hand over his heart. “I’m not usually like this, but I’m shy again whenever I see him.”

_“He’s shy when he sees you too,”_ Viktor whispered. The script that he was supposed to follow, the lines he was supposed to say, they all disappeared. Viktor tightened his grip over the steering wheel to keep himself from becoming a stuttering mess. His disguise was useless now, but Viktor wasn’t done with this little charade. “I’m sure he would like to know what your worries are.”

Yuuri closed his eyes for a moment. When he opened them, not a breath of hesitation twisted his words. “Sometimes, it feels like he’s trying to fight the world alone.” Yuuri apologized afterwards, unsure if his comment was confusing or not. Viktor prompted him to elaborate.

Their voices never rose above a comfortable tone. If and when they referred to each other, there was care behind it. Not an argument, but a simple conversation. A sharp contrast to the heated tension they shared while on a bridge. Speaking of bridges, Viktor drove over the same one that he proposed to Yuuri on. Able to read into that beautiful mind, Yuuri glanced out the window. His ring pressed against his lips for a kiss.

“I just want him to know that he’s not alone in this.” The engagement ring slipped from between Yuuri’s fingers, and it nestled against his chest. “He told me once that we shared the same fears, the same pain.” Yuuri wrapped his pinkie around his necklace. “But there’s one thing I don’t want him to go through.”

“What is it?”

“The pain of knowing that things could’ve been different if only we’ve talked about it.” Yuuri nearly struck his thigh with his fist before Viktor stopped him. His arm reached out, and his hand hovered over Yuuri’s right thigh just before his fist came crashing down. Viktor expected pain, but all he felt was a soft thud. Yuuri rested his hand over Viktor’s. Every touch had a purpose, for Yuuri laced his fingers between Viktor’s.

Viktor sighed softly and gently squeezed Yuuri’s hand. “What happened?”

“You become closely acquainted to the monster you thought you’d never become.” The words came out so naturally, and Viktor knew that it was because Yuuri had gone through the experience for himself. In some ways, Viktor understood Yuuri when his mind wandered to a murder and dance that darkened his thoughts before his confession with Father Yakov. That ache, that pain that trembled down to the hands. Where it wouldn’t leave until you did something brash to compensate for a gaping hole in the heart, and Viktor just knew. He knew that Yuuri had killed him too, long ago to feel closure.

Yuuri must’ve seen Viktor’s face on every client, on every kill, and on every individual that vaguely resembled Viktor in some way or form. How the pain only grew with time until his heart felt callous. Only to feel another stab when he met Viktor again at an airport, not too long ago.

“Is that what happens when you change your fate?” Viktor’s voice barely rose above a whisper, but Yuuri heard him. Clearly, despite the bumps on the road.

Yuuri swirled shapes across Viktor’s palm, rather absently. “I believe there are better ways of doing it than deciding the choice on your own.” When Viktor when whistled in reply, he folded his cards and pressed them against Fate’s poker game. Yuuri did the same, albeit, he held onto his cards by the tip of his thumb. The illustrations panned out, curved into the shape of a fan, while Viktor’s smoothed his cards with the back of his hand. They were both showing hearts. A risk, even though this was hard.

Who spoke first after the reveal? Not Yuuri, his mind tinkering away to the new path that this crossroad had let him and Viktor to. Not Viktor, his heart sprang from a cage and stretched its wings. Just as the door opened, it swung shut and sliced his feathers.

_“What choice are you two willing to make?”_ Mama’s voice killed them.

A switchblade slipped from down Yuuri’s sleeve and into his hand, instinctively. Viktor grabbed _Gypsy,_ holding her close against his heart before he heard static interference for the first time. The sudden rock of _Gypsy's_ barrel rattled something inside. When Viktor tipped the Colt over, a miniature mic slipped out and bounced onto his lap.

How? When? Did Mama do this before she gave Viktor _Gypsy,_ or did she...Viktor’s eyes widened when he remembered that Mama messed with the Colt right after she told him of his assignment. Then, at that moment, was the perfect time to slip something so innocent while Viktor’s mind bounced back and forth on what he had to do.

It was nothing short of brilliant, but it choked Viktor when he thought of it now.

_“We are only given one life.”_ The voice was new to Viktor, but he noticed how Yuuri turned white as a sheet when he heard it. His switchblade trembled and slipped out from his hand. For the first time in its life, betrayal sprouted from the hilt and tangled across the blade. When Yuuri stooped down to pick it up, Yuuri scrunched his face and hissed. A burn settled across his palm, but he held onto his weapon tightly. Reassurance that he wasn’t going to forsake it yet, and that determination bled to Viktor he held _Gypsy_ firmly. Despite this inevitable betrayal.

_“Viktor, can you hear me?”_ Mama spoke again. Viktor responded back. His cap slipped from his head and fell to the back of his seat. _“Stop the car and get out.”_ A generous statement without a yell, but it was a command with a fancy ribbon wrapped around it.

“Not with the traffic flow,” Viktor countered. His eyes briefly glanced towards the rearview mirror, just in time to see Yuuri twitch. To prevent himself from laughing, or to keep himself sane? Considering that his boss and Viktor’s boss could hear every breath that they tried to hide.

_“Ah. That’s a problem.”_ Spoken so simply, as if Mama just heard about the weather. At the moment, Viktor and Yuuri weren’t sure if others were listening to them. Whether from an earpiece that was connected to Mama’s source, or they were simply pressed against Mama and Mr. Fukumori’s back to hear the tidbits that spilled between Yuuri and Viktor. So when Mama called out Guildenstern’s name and Guildenstern responded back, the miniature mic on Viktor’s thigh never slipped and fell onto the floor. Caught in the triangle space between his legs, Viktor steadied his grip on the steering wheel when Guildenstern’s response was muffled by the rotating blades of helicopter.

Soaring above the bridge, slowly closing in on Viktor’s taxi, a helicopter shot through the winter current. Howling in the front seat was Archie, a maniac glee caught in every corner of his eyes when he plowed through the wind. In the passenger area with a sniper-point, Guildenstern shouted for her former-boss to steady himself. To overshoot their target would waste valuable time, and time wasn’t a luxury at the moment.

“It’s all in the style!” Archie leveled the helicopter accordingly, steadying with the best of his hands.

“Not stylish enough, I’m afraid!” Guildenstern leaned her sniper-point out from the helicopter. Her upper body hovered out from the edge dangerously, but she kept herself steady.

Despite the turbulent winds threatening to pull her down. Through the scope, she tracked Viktor’s taxi. Up ahead of the traffic flow, in which it followed, there was a green street light that dragged the flow forward. Attached to the lines, linked together by a series of networks, was a generator. Snug in its suspension, and Guildenstern locked on her target.

The rush of the bullet when it sped from the barrel left a tingle up Guildenstern’s arm when an explosion plumed before her eyes.

Enough to knock the helicopter back and Archie yelped. Trying to steady the helicopter, and Guildenstern clung onto the floor for dear life. Before she knew it, she sprung to her feet and sprinted to the controls. Where she sat next to Archie and helped him control the helicopter as it spiraled against the winter current, swung dangerously towards the bottom of the bridge and the frigid waters below.

The explosion rocked the street lights, fading them out to black. Traffic halted as people crawled out from their vehicles. Sirens blared in the distance to the rhythm of patrol cars and firetrucks. Amongst the sea of color, fright, and sound...Viktor slipped out from the taxi.

His gloves fell to the ground, slipped off as soon as his door closed behind him. His back leaned against it, and his engagement ring reflected the amber glow from what was left of the exploding generator. _Gypsy_ held upside in his hand, an act of surrender when she dangled off the edge of his thumb like bait.

No struggles, no anger. _Gypsy_ accepted her fate as quickly as Viktor did when he came around the taxi and opened Yuuri’s door. Yuuri reached his hand out, and Viktor escorted him by his side. A flower curved behind Yuuri’s hear when he came out, and his switchblade pointed towards the ground when the door closed behind him.

A BMW stopped behind them. Mama and Mr. Fukumori’s faces were visible behind the glass. A headset between them, a hint of something strange danced across their features when they slipped out from the car. Acted as if they were inspecting the generator-fiasco from afar. But when they came close, Mama asked if Yuuri and Viktor to turn around and lower their weapons.

Whether it was better to close their eyes or not, Viktor wasn’t sure. But when he happened to glance at Yuuri’s direction, Viktor saw that Yuuri’s eyes were closed. Not out of fear or worry, but a calm acceptance of what just happened and the consequences that would soon follow. It was as if Yuuri wanted to clear his mind. Feel the breeze, hear a myriad of voices that weren’t his own for just this once, and his elbow touched Viktor’s. In these last moments before his death, Yuuri held onto these moments.

What did Viktor hold? He didn’t have an answer when he felt Mama’s finger at the back of his head. Near the base, where his medulla ticked to every rhythm that kept him alive. In a rush, Viktor closed his eyes. The darkness numbed his senses when time slowed to a crawl. Viktor thought of one thing but before it materialized, he heard a faint whisper from Mama.

_“Bang,”_ followed by a soft poke.

Instead of death, Viktor and Yuuri opened their eyes to a welcoming embrace. It squished their bodies together, as if there were one of the same. As if the separate fates that guided them merged into one, and a new path was forged underneath their feet. Not of brick or mortar, but of a soft carpet accompanied with falling flowers and the sound of a flickering piano.

Every sense was packaged and delivered neatly with an embrace as the ribbon that kept everything together. This was Mama’s love, poured out to fill Viktor and Yuuri’s empty cups until they were topped off with a blissful warmth.

  
  


**Next time on chapter 3…**

_Occasionally, a teacup tips and shatters into a thousand pieces on the floor._

The swish of their hands against another's. A few, fluttering notes from an accompanying cello fell to deaf ears when he slipped. Held by the faintest string, kept his back from touching the floor when Yuuri held Viktor within his arms. The dip, the clash, an awkward crash of legs when Viktor bent his knees and kept himself steady. Yuuri crept into his tippy toes, panted breaths hovered down his chin. To let Viktor go, to see him fracture against the floor, intrigued Yuuri. His fingers barely slipped. Viktor grasped his shoulder with a coy eye.

_Like clockwork._

Viktor reached out, so tenderly at first. How his fingers mapped every hill and valley that tricked down Yuuri’s face. Right at the base, where the sweetest treasure was curved under Viktor’s thumb, a smile tickled his skin. Of when Yuuri parted his lips and peppered kisses against. Slow at first, migrated down across the palm, before he paused at Viktor’s wrist.

_Maybe one day, I'll shatter with it too._

“Please stay by my side--” Yuuri lifted Viktor from the dip. The curve of Viktor’s ring felt so warm between Yuuri’s touch. This felt like a dream, a fantasy where nothing could go wrong because Yuuri found his prince.

“--and don't let me go,” Viktor finished, kissing the words off Yuuri’s lips. He held Yuuri’s blues within his eyes. Yuuri held Viktor’s violet within his own.

To the world, they were merely shadows in a party. To them, to a couple, the world served simply a backdrop for the fireworks between their eyes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a long time since I’ve written for OCs, and I really enjoy the ones that I have for this story. I find bits of myself in their personalities and on what they carry, and it’s been a pleasure working on all of them. Let me know what your thoughts are of them. It’s my first time doing something like this, and I’ll admit it. I was scared to focus such a pivotal point of this chapter on them, but it felt good and I was excited at the same time.
> 
> From chapter 3 and onwards, it’ll be more from Viktor and Yuuri’s side of the story. The OCs will be integrated throughout the story, but the fic will be more Viktor and Yuuri-driven from now on.
> 
> Thank you for reading, liking, and commenting on this story and I’ll see y’all for the next update~
> 
> Audio for the ending of the fic:  [](https://yuuris-piano.tumblr.com/post/171594395115/yuuris-piano-if-in-a-moment-i-could-ask-for) How to Tame a Heart   
>  [ _ Rewrite the Stars _ ](https://youtu.be/gdjR2lvIfJ4) was the audio that inspired this chapter   
>  Check out this  [ gorgeous fanart ](https://lady-of-inklings.tumblr.com/post/171981324962/inkandartistry-how-to-tame-a-heart-by) made by one of my buddies,  [](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lady_of_Inklings/pseuds/Lady_of_Inklings) Lady_of_Inklings ! I think it wraps up chapter 2 quite nicely.

**Author's Note:**

> Tumblr: @yuuris-piano
> 
> If a tense Viktor/Yuuri story is up your alley and you'll love to see a different take on the suspense, look no further than this [serial killer!AU](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14597550/chapters/33737670) project that I wrote. I won't say it's the best story you could read for the AU, but it's to die for. [ah, puns...]


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